


Jealousy

by aurorasparrow (moonofmylife88)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-07-26 12:15:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7573684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonofmylife88/pseuds/aurorasparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Response to 2016 AxG Week Prompt: Jealousy</p><p>Post-war AU in Winterfell where everyone is alive.</p><p>There will be 9 follow up chapters, three of those already completed, and six more of them in progress, but I wanted to this up already, so here it is!</p><p>The Starks' observance of Gendry and Arya's relationship with subtle undertones of jealousy...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ned

**Author's Note:**

> Because Ned interacting with Arya/Gendry is my favorite, and I love to think he would have been this supportive of them. The theme of jealousy is definitely a subtle undertone here, but you can see it, sort of in the way a father knows he's no longer his daughter's #1, that type of thing. Hope you like it and all that's to come!

_Ned_

Ned watched. He watched as his youngest daughter returned to Winterfell nearly in the arms of a man who looked just like Ned’s dead best friend. Arya had never before looked at anyone the way she looked at her father, so full of trust, love and respect. Until now. Ned wanted to hit the boy. He wanted to knight him too. The boy was everything his friend never could have been. He was honorable. He was kind. He was so accepting of Arya that it hurt. What a true Baratheon should be, with all the best qualities of Robert, Stannis and Renly. Strong. Stubborn. Compassionate.

So, instead, Ned watched. He watched as the boy watched her, and he watched as she watched the boy. And he knew that, together, they were nothing like his best friend and his sister. He’d worried at first. Sleepless worry. That the boy would run her off the way the boy’s father had run Ned’s sister off. Another Baratheon hunting down a Stark.

Ned’s sleepless nights had him on the verge of sending the boy away.

Arya found Ned in the godswood. He watched as she approached and as she leapt into his arms.

“Father, what are you afraid of?” She stood before him now, looking up at him, his jaw in the palm of her hand. She had seen in his eyes how haunted he was since she’d come back side-by-side Gendry.

They could both hear the ringing and clanging from the forge, once again active, in the distance.

“What is he to you?” Ned asked, taking his daughter’s hand carefully in his. Neither had to clarify who ‘he’ was.

Arya glanced down at her feet then shyly back up at him.

Ned remembered another conversation between father and daughter in nearly this exact spot, years long past. This was not that conversation. He could see in his daughter’s eyes this would be nothing like that. He could feel that he would be the one walking away filled with dread.

“Father, do you remember when you told me I would marry a king?” She asked him softly, squeezing his hand with hers.

“I do.” He brushed her bangs out of her face, took her chin in hand and tilted her face up so she was looking at him instead of her feet.

“I found one.” She told him breathlessly.

Ned’s heart both broke and soared. He didn’t want to lose his daughter, but all he’d ever wanted was for her to be this happy.

“You told me that wasn’t you, sweet one.” His eyes pleaded.

Now that their nightmare was over, his family safe, he wanted things to go back to the way they’d been. He didn’t want any of his children to leave.

She smiled almost grimly. “It’s not.” She scrunched her nose. “We won’t be royalty. We’ll be outlaws.”

Ned couldn’t help but smile. “And the boy? What are his wishes?”

Arya narrowed her eyes. “Who cares? He’s mine.”

Ned chuckled softly. “Your mother always did say your heart’s desire was what you couldn’t have.”

Arya’s smile fell and her eyes grew troubled. Ned cursed himself for causing her to take on the look his sister had given his father so long ago. “I heard Mikken say you mean to send Gendry to Moat Cailin.” Her voice begged him that it not be true.

Before he could address that, she spoke again, and his heart dropped to his stomach at her words. “Promise me you won’t, father.”

_Promise me, Ned. Promise me._

Ned gathered Arya in a hug to him almost roughly. His chin rested protectively on the top of her tangled hair.

“I promise, little wolf.” The words came out choked, but she must understand that he meant them.

She held him tightly too. “For true, father?” Her voice muffled by his jerkin to which her face was pressed.

He held her away from him again, his hands on her shoulders, and he made sure she was looking at him when he told her, “There is nothing in this world, Arya, that you can’t have which I can give you.”

He was surprised to see her eyes were moist with a sheen of tears that didn’t fall. His youngest daughter never cried anymore, not since coming back.

“Send the boy to me, wild one.”

Her eyes flashed excitedly, and she raised herself on her toes to kiss his cheek then dashed away and out of the godswood.

Ned turned back to the tree. “Help me, old ones.” He beseeched it. The wind blew through the red leaves, whispering words he could not as of yet understand. The water in the pool below rippled. For the tiniest sliver of a moment, Ned thought he saw Lyanna’s face in the pool. The face turned into Robert’s, and Ned turned to watch the boy approach him cautiously. Gendry’s face was twisted into a look Ned couldn’t ever remember seeing on Robert’s. Fear and stubbornness and somehow even love, all combined.

“M’lord.” Gendry went to one knee.

“Rise, child.” Ned dropped the red leaves he’d been clutching in one hand and approached the boy.

“Do you know the story of Ser Duncan the Tall?”

“Only what Arr-.” The boy grew slightly red in the face but continued. “What Lady Arya has told me.”

Ned waited for the boy to relay what he had learnt.

“He was born in Flea Bottom. He became a knight.” Gendry spoke guardedly as if he might say something wrong. “But when he died, he was Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.”

“It was also said he was in love with a Northern girl.” Ned told the boy simply.

The boy blinked, then turned redder than before. He didn’t say anything, but his jaw was locked hard, and he got that stubborn look in his eyes Ned had seen before when Catelyn criticized Arya in his presence.

“You were at Harrenhall with my daughter.” It was not a question. “You helped her escape.”

Gendry gave a hesitating nod. “I did what I could, m’lord. Truth be told it was Arry that got us out of that mess.”

“And on the road?” Ned asked. “You fought alongside her against Amory Lorch’s men.”

“Aye.” Gendry confirmed. “Though she killed more men than I did.”

Ned frowned. “And in the Riverlands. The Battle of the Wolves at the Trident.” Ned referred to the battle that ended the war. “It is said that the ghost of King Robert and his war hammer fought alongside Lady Lyanna reborn and her wolf. That he slew a thousand and one men before they could so much as glance at the lady.”

Gendry shuffled his feet in place, his head bobbing up and down once almost imperceptibly. “They also say she slew twice that.” Even his voice managed to take on a stubborn air. He looked down at his feet as if they were something interesting.

“You followed my daughter from King’s Landing to Harrenhall to Braavos and back.”

“And would again, m’lord.” The boy’s fists were clenched tightly as he nearly glared up at Ned, as though Ned were accusing him of doing something wrong.

“And yet you ask for nothing in return?” Ned probed, wondering if his instincts about the boy were completely right...that he didn’t follow a princess around the world for any reason other than that he loved her.

Gendry looked furious now. He thought he was being faulted somehow. “Never. There’s nothing in all of Westeros or beyond worth as much as Arry’s life.” He looked defiant now, uncaring he might be saying the wrong thing or speaking disrespectfully. “M’lord.” He added grudgingly though.

Ned smiled brightly now. It was likely the largest smile he’d donned on his face since before the war. Unbidden tears too sprang to his eyes.

Gendry noticed and looked confused now, almost sheepish.

“Do you know, m’boy,” Ned spoke affectionately now and took four steps forward until he stood in front of the boy. He lifted his hand to Gendry’s chin the same way he’d just done to his daughter. Taking the boy’s set jaw in between his fingers, he tilted the boy’s head up to look at him, then cupped the boy’s cheek in his palm tenderly. “I do not think anyone could deserve my daughter.”

Gendry’s eyes were downcast. “Nor could I think that, m’lord.”

“Though if such a man existed,” Ned’s voice caught in his throat, and Gendry’s eyes met his now, looking startled that the father of the girl he loved was crying. “I could believe that it was you.”

Gendry’s own eyes became wet with tears, and he bowed his head to hide his shame. Without meaning to, his forehead came to rest against Ned’s jerkin. Ned pulled the boy into a gruff embrace with a loud chuckle. The boy seemed surprised at first, though he slowly relaxed. Ned knew the boy was not used to physical touch, though he’d seen his daughter exchange hugs enough with the lad. Ned wondered then at how fate could have delivered the son of his best friend both into his care and into the arms of his daughter.

Indeed, when they parted, the boy’s eyes were rimmed red, and his voice hitched when he spoke. “Thank you, m’lord.”

Ned cuffed Gendry gently. “None of that now, son. You’ll call me father henceforth.”

Gendry looked down again, this time, tears springing forth unmistakably. Ned knew he’d never had a father. Not truly.

Suddenly, a small figure dropped down from the thick tree branches above. Arya punched her bull hard in the shoulder. “No more of that now,” her voice was thick with emotion, “you’re embarrassing me.” Then threw her arms around the lad’s shaking form and let out her own strangled sob.

Ned let out a loud bark of laughter. “What am I going to do with you two?” He asked hopelessly, then wrapped his arms around the two of them as they embraced.


	2. Catelyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never really written Catelyn before, so I hope this comes out alright.

_Catelyn_

Catelyn watched as her youngest daughter crossed swords with the bastard boy she’d brought home with her. Years ago, Catelyn had watched as Ned left her to go fight a war; he came back with his own bastard boy. Now Arya had followed in his footsteps; only this boy was so much more dangerous because he wanted to take Arya from her again. Catelyn had already lost her once and didn’t intend on losing her again.

Catelyn had begged her husband to send the bull boy away, just as she had when he’d brought the Snow boy back with him back then. It hadn’t worked, then or now. Worse, the first boy, it turned out, had not been a bastard but the Targaryen heir to the Iron Throne. He ruled Westeros now, his dragon queen beside him. And this second boy turned out to be the son of a king as well, though a stag, not a dragon.

Instead of sending the boy away, Ned had given him his blessing. Now, Catelyn had to watch, silently, as Arya and the boy, Gendry he was called, grew closer and closer, like to be married one day if Arya would allow it.

Catelyn watched as her daughter and the smith crossed swords on a daily basis, her brothers sometimes joining in a mêlée. She watched as they rode out on horseback for days or weeks at a time, returning with laughter on their lips, Arya claiming they’d been outlaws while gone. She watched as Arya rode Rhaegal, the new king’s dragon, for the first time, the smith, her constant companion, astride behind her. Catelyn watched as Arya grew older, taller and more beautiful than even her aunt before her while the boy grew taller, stronger and more handsome than his father before him.

Catelyn sighed in frustration as she watched her daughter do the only kind of dancing she’d ever permitted be taught to her: sword fighting. And in breeches made for men no less. Granted Catelyn wasn’t sure you could fight in a dress. Catelyn wouldn’t know. Cat couldn’t fight, though she’d wished many times over, during the war, that she could.

Cat had tried countless times to get her daughter to wear dresses since she’d come back, but the war had changed Arya. Everything she’d gone through, that smith at her side the entire time, had changed her drastically, made her so much more wild than she’d been before. Cat heard rumors, some she didn’t want to believe. Her daughter had been a boy, a servant, an outlaw, a knight, an assassin, a warrior, but never a lady, no, never a princess.

Catelyn thought on all this and more later as she headed towards her daughter’s chambers. The dragon queen had arrived earlier in the day astride Drogon, the largest and fiercest of the three beasts. The king sent his blessings but couldn’t be in attendance for Sansa’s name day feast; there was trouble in the Dornish waters, the Queen said, though atop Rhaegal, the king would likely soon put the matter to rest. Catelyn was determined to make a lady of her daughter for at least a day. Arya wouldn’t like it, but she’d have to dress in something finer than Bran’s old torn breeches to host the Queen.

Approaching the door, which was slightly cracked open, Catelyn saw candlelight flickering within the chambers. She heard voices coming from within.

Her daughter was arguing with someone. A man. Catelyn knew with a certainty who.

“It would please your lady mother,” the smith said gruffly in a commanding tone no one usually dare use with her youngest daughter.

“No it won’t,” Arya argued back. Catelyn watched the sliver between the door and the wall, as shadows passed back and forth in the room. “It would please her if I acted the lady. Forcing me into a dress won’t make me one.”

The smith snorted. “No, nothin’ will.” Then a moment later: “Ow!” The smith exclaimed. Catelyn would have berated her daughter for attacking the smith, but she didn’t want to admit she’d been eavesdropping and was secretly pleased Arya wasn’t afraid to defend herself, even if it wasn’t for a very good reason. Cat had no love for the boy but knew he spoke in jest.

“I’d much rather go out riding and draw out those robbers still living in the wolfswood,” her daughter, much to Cat’s shock, told the smith, “or visit Thoros and them.” Arya’s voice took on a pleading tone, and Cat saw the shadows meet, knowing that meant the two stood close to one another. Cat was startled to hear her daughter so blatantly admit what it was they did when they were gone for three or four turns of the moon. Granted the two didn’t know they were being listened to.

“And them?” Irritation painted the smith’s voice. “You mean Dayne, don’t you?” The boy said almost haughtily.

“Stupid,” Cat could almost hear her daughter rolling her eyes. “You know I don’t care even a little about seeing Ned bloody Dayne. You just want to hear me say it.”

There was a smile in the smith’s voice when he spoke. “Doesn’t stop you from being pleased to see him every time we go.” He teased, though a hint of jealousy still plagued his tone.

Arya sighed. “You know very well I only like going to be free with you and Nymeria at my side at all hours of the day with no one telling us what we can and can’t do.” Arya’s tone was unnaturally tender.

“Once the Queen goes home,” the smith promised in a soothing voice. Cat heard then what was undoubtedly a kiss.

Cat was too shocked about everything she was hearing to grow angry at the audacity of the bastard for kissing her daughter while alone together in her chambers.

“Fine.” Arya begrudgingly allowed. “But I’m not wearing a dress, not to please my mother. It’s time she accepts me as I am.”

Although Arya’s tone had permitted no room for argument, the smith spoke out anyway, but his voice was softer and smoother than it’d been the entire time. “It would please _me_ , m’lady.”

Catelyn was sure Arya would lash out again, knowing the term was an endearment the boy used to tease her, not as a courtesy. So she was surprised when Arya remained silent before she heard what was undoubtedly another kiss.

“Just. This. Once.” Arya spoke impatiently now through gritted teeth. “But not the blue one.”

Catelyn watched as the smith’s shadow crossed towards Arya’s wardrobe. “Oh yes, the blue one.” He argued, with a smile in his voice.

It was high time, Catelyn decided, that she leave, elsewise she’d be discovered. As she rounded the corner of the corridor, Cat could hear the two still bickering, arguing and mayhaps even wrestling over a dress. Cat only hoped they didn’t tear the poor garment. It had been a gift from the Queen.

Catelyn felt bewildered and distraught. She had been sure Arya would refuse the boy’s request as vehemently as she refused Catelyn’s imploring time and time again. But Arya had caved. And what was worse, the boy had made the request on Catelyn’s behalf. What was he playing at? Trying to win her favor? Her daughter in a dress would hardly make the boy any less a bastard.

Still, Catelyn could tell her own feelings towards the boy, while still harsh, had somewhat softened. Somehow, despite who he was, he was good for her daughter. Ned insisted that was so, but until now, Catelyn hadn’t truly believed him, despite the number of stories she’d heard of their time together all over Westeros and Braavos. If the tales were to be believed. Arya hardly talked about those times with anyone other than the smith, so Catelyn couldn’t be sure.

Catelyn pondered upon this all again later at the feast. She was pleasantly surprised to see that her daughter had donned the blue dress after all, gifted to Arya by their guest. Daenerys made note of it when greeting Arya. Catelyn was surprised to see that the Queen greeted the smith more warmly than she had before. She was sure that was the king’s doing. The two bastards had taken immensely kindly to one another.

Catelyn’s eyes kept drifting back to the two where they sat side-by-side at the high table. Ned insisted the boy be allowed a place at their own table. If not for the boy, Ned claimed, they might have only the one daughter in place of the two. Catelyn had been deaf to those words before. Now...she couldn’t ignore what must be the truth in them.

After the dancing had begun, Cat watched as the smith stood and held out a hand to her daughter. They were too far for her to hear the words that they spoke, but Cat knew a request to dance when she saw one. Surprise graced Cat’s features once more that day. If the smith could dance, this was news to her. Cat almost smiled when her daughter shook her pretty little head in a most undignified manner and slapped the smith’s hand away. Of course the girl wouldn’t get up and dance with him in front of all these people. She refused every lesson Cat offered her in the art, both before and after the war. Even if Arya could dance, Cat was sure she wouldn’t. Not even for the smith.

The smith leaned over and whispered in Arya’s ear. For what seemed like the thousandth time that day, Cat’s eyes widened in astonishment when her daughter stood and took the smith’s hand. She did so rudely and gracelessly but did it all the same.

What was more, Arya could dance. Not well but not so horribly either. And the smith matched her every step. He was quite tall and so heavily muscled, it was difficult to see how he managed to dance with any grace. When the two messed up the steps to one particular dance, they began to laugh unbecomingly. Cat was relieved to see the Queen was laughing as well. So was Sansa.

So why did Cat feel so sad? She stood and swept out of the great hall. She went to the only place, other than Ned’s arms, where she could quickly find peace. But now she circled the sept in confusion. Should she pray to the Warrior? They were both warriors now, weren’t they? Should she pray to the Smith? The thought of doing so didn’t sit well with Cat. The Maiden? No, though Arya was clearly so in love with the boy, she didn’t love like a maiden; she loved like a warrior.

It was Ned who found Cat kneeling before the Crone. He smiled knowingly when he offered a hand to help her up. They walked back towards their chambers in silence.

“Have we lost her?” Catelyn didn’t recognize her voice, hollow as it was.

Ned grimaced. “No, love. We’ve found her.” His voice promised her.

Days later, Catelyn found Arya in her chambers and almost dropped the garments she’d been carrying in shock. Though dirty and tangled in breeches and tunic as ever, Arya sat cross legged on her bed, needlepoint in hand. Arya shoved her work behind her back before Cat could see what she’d been working on.

“Mother.” Her voice a combination of surprise and irritation.

“Sweet Arya,” Cat’s face played at a smile. Finding her daughter doing something she so adamantly refused to do in the past brought some unknown peace to Cat.

“What is that?” Arya gestured to the clothes draped over Catelyn’s arms.

Catelyn approached the bed and spread the garments out in front of Arya so she could clearly see them. “If you will insist on dressing in breeches, darling, I insist they at least be comely.”

Arya ran her small hands over the soft silky clothing. There were several pairs of breeches and tunics, all in the same shape Arya was used to wearing; only, the materials were softer and more feminine, the colors grays and blues and purples.

Arya looked strangely pleased and flushed. She hopped up, but not before tucking her needlework unceremoniously under a pile of pillows, and wrapped her arms gently around her mother and pressed a kiss to her cheeks. “Thank you.” Arya said, all courtesy and grace.

Cat was glad the gift pleased her daughter and only rued the day that would come when Arya managed to rip and stain these clothes too. Still, more of the garments could always be made, Cat supposed.

It was a blustery but warm day a few turns of the moon later when Cat found out what Arya had been so quick to hide from her.

Cat hadn’t meant to eavesdrop again, but the smith could so often be found near Arya that it was hard to avoid. This time, the two were alone in a sitting room used by the family, in between the wings of the castle where they lived.

“I have something for you,” Catelyn could hear her daughter’s voice clearly from around the corner.

“For me?” The smith’s voice, pleasantly surprised but also threatening to tease.

“Don’t,” Arya’s voice warned, “or I’ll toss it into the fire.”

The smith only laughed, and it sounded like they grappled over a package wrapped in paper. The smith seemed to have won. Catelyn heard the clear sound of something being unwrapped. She heard her daughter’s pacing footsteps.

“If you don’t like it,” Arya’s voice was uncharacteristically uncertain and pained. “I can have someone else make a true one for you. I was never good at needlework- well, not this kind. Only...” She paused, truly sounding pained now. “I wanted it to be me who made you something, not Mother or Sansa.”

The boy’s breathing was low and slow but the unmistakable sound of his heavy footsteps from the chair toward Arya’s voice echoed down the corridor.

“Well, I don’t care if you don’t like it-“ Arya was snapping at him. Only to be silenced by a kiss from the smith. Cat didn’t hear them surface for a time.

“I love it.” The smith finally spoke, his voice low and rough. “It’s beautiful. Don’t you dare burn it.” His voice a growl now.

Cat knew she’d overstayed a conversation too long again now. Her steps back up the corridor were hopefully imperceptible.

She should have known, she thought, as she entered her warm chambers. Needlework, not for needlework itself, but for _him_. Jealously flashed unbidden through Cat’s heart, and she was surprised at herself. She’d only felt this one other time. And that had been when she realized that Arya, a tiny girl of five or six, was bonding closely with the bastard boy Snow, more so than Cat had ever managed to bond with her own daughter.

The next morning dawned bright and early when Catelyn joined her family in the small solar to break their fast. She was unsurprised to see the smith. But she was surprised to see the tunic he donned. In place of his usual neat white or gray tunic, he wore a black one on which was crookedly sewn the likeness of a bull in gold thread. Cat’s eyes found her daughter’s. Arya was watching her anxiously. Catelyn smiled brightly, and the girl returned the smile in kind.

Cat didn’t know why for true that it was that moment that she chose to believe the smith, Gendry, loved her daughter more than Catelyn had ever witness a person love another. He donned the tunic proudly where another man might have felt foolish. There was a threat in his eyes, daring anyone to say anything, to criticize. Catelyn sent him grudging respect with her own eyes and saw the most imperceptible nod from him.

She spoke to him later that same day when Arya wasn’t around to protect him, though Cat didn’t see why her daughter thought this large man needed protecting.

“You won’t go anywhere without her, will you?” Catelyn asked him bluntly.

“No, my lady.” Gendry’s tone was crisp and respectful, his eyes softer than they usually were.

“If you thought it best for her if you did...” Catelyn trailed off.

The smith – Gendry considered this for a long moment. “It wouldn’t be.” He said decisively. “She’d kill me.” There was laughter in his tone, and Cat couldn’t help the smile that crept over her lips.

“You mean to marry my daughter.” It wasn’t a question.

Gendry shook his head anyway. “I mean to do whatever she would have of me.”

Catelyn both pursed her lips and smiled sweetly. “Arya always did a find a way to get what she couldn’t have.”

“Yes, my lady.” Gendry agreed.

That night, Catelyn did something she’d never done before and sat down in her solar at her writing table to pen a letter to the king.


	3. Jon

_Jon_

Jon watched as his little sister ran into the arms of the blacksmith first and tried not to feel sad or remember the way the smaller version of her, years ago, used to run into his arms first when he got back from a hunt with his father and brothers. True, Jon and Gendry had just returned on the back of Rhaegal from the free cities after having been gone for two turns of the moon.

Still, Jon couldn’t place the moment when Arya would rather have run into the arms of this boy before his own, likely because it had happened during the years Arya and Gendry been trapped in the riverlands by war. The smith and Arya embraced fiercely for several long moments. Only then did Arya spot Jon.

Jon watched as Arya rushed his way next. He mussed her hair with one hand and wrapped his other arm around her tightly.

“Happy name day, little sister.”

“What took you two so long?!” Arya punched her brother in the shoulder after releasing him from her embrace.

“If that blacksmith doesn’t keep his hands off you,” Jon told her half-jokingly, referring to their long hug and nodding toward Gendry who looked like he was still waiting for Arya to come back to him, “I’m going to have to push him off Rhaegal next time.”

Arya laughed and punched him again. “Careful now, your Grace, that’s my blacksmith. If anyone’s going to drop him into the Narrow Sea, it’ll be me.”

Jon groaned in annoyance. “Arya, do _not_ call me that.”

“If you’re both done discussing how you’re going to kill me...” Gendry spoke jokingly, though there was longing in his voice as he stared at Arya.

And just like that, Arya was back at the smith’s side, inspecting his travel sack. “What did you bring me back?” She asked eagerly.

“You’ll have to wait and see at your name day feast, m’lady.” Gendry teased, letting Arya go through the sack anyway to find the arakh he’d brought her from Vaes Dothrak and the sweet crab cakes Gendry had insisted they get from Braavos since they were the one dish from across the sea that Arya always talked about.

“I love it.” Arya said through a mouthful of crab cake, running her fingers delicately along the curved blade.

“The grassmen taught me how to forge them.” Gendry said proudly. His eyes twinkled, as he reached a hand forward to brush a lock of Arya’s hair away from where it’d fallen over her eyes and smoothed her hair back on her head tenderly.

Jon watched as the boy did so. Jon remembered how he’d used to muss Arya’s hair all the time when they were little. This was completely different, yet somehow Jon still felt replaced. He knew he’d always be Arya’s favorite brother, but Gendry was something more, like an extension of Arya, and she of him. He was glad she’d found someone she could be so happy with, so herself, but Jon still felt the loss. As he met his father’s eyes from across the yard, he knew they all felt it in one way or another.

“There’s more,” Jon heard Gendry reassuring Arya about her presents, as she led him away. Jon let them go.

“The only bloody present I wanted today was you back,” Jon heard his baby sister tell boy in a low voice.

Jon sighed and turned to tend to Rhaegal and to prepare for his little sister’s name day feast.

Later, at the feast, he watched as Arya accepted her other gifts. Some were from her family. Ned had given his daughter a pile of large tomes all written on Visenya, Rhaenys and Nymeria. Catelyn, a dress. Jon, himself, had given her a mace and throwing stars. Robb and Jeyne, a new bow beautifully carved out of weirwood with arrows to match. Arya had shouted in delight at all but the dress.

Some of the gifts were from lords who were in attendance, most of them seeking Arya’s hand. Little did they know...

Ned Dayne, the lord who seemed most smitten with the girl as well as the most oblivious to her affections for another, had given her a Dornish sand steed. Jon’s own brother, Aegon, who refused to believe Arya preferred a bastard blacksmith over a prince, had given her an abundance of jewels, the color of winter roses, to adorn her head, neck, ears, wrists and ankles. Arya had accepted the gifts graciously, had promised to race Dayne on her new steed, had promised to wear her new jewels at the next feast. Still, both suitors couldn’t hide their disappointment when Arya went immediately back to enthusiastically speaking with the man at her right side, the gifts all but forgotten.

Jon sat to Arya’s left at the high table and could hear their conversation. Gendry was telling Arya all about their travels. Jon was laughing along or adding in the bits Gendry forgot to tell. Arya made them both promise they wouldn’t go again without her.

From the corner of his eye, Jon saw Rickon slip in behind the seats, a long cloth package in his arms. The little boy whispered something in Gendry’s ear, sliding the package onto the latter’s lap, all while Arya joked with Jon once again about abandoning Gendry in the free cities. She looked to her left when Gendry didn’t respond with the expected laugh.

Gendry’s eyes were dark and expectant, as he looked to the girl beside him. Arya didn’t seem to notice.

“Another gift?!” She smiled wolfishly. Jon knew Gendry must have already given her the other artifacts Gendry had brought for her from their journey: a large leather-bound book written in high Valyrian, a soft and glimmering silver cloak one could wear to blend into their surroundings for low visibility, Valyrian steel throwing knives in different shapes and sizes as well as a bottle of Shade of the Evening from Qarth which Arya had coveted after for a time since her travels.

Jon knew all about those presents, but not of this one, and wondered, or could guess really, what it was. His throat tightened. Arya hadn’t had a newly forged sword since Jon had brought one to her and all her excited nine-year-old-ness.

Arya unwrapped the cloth from around the sword slowly. It was of a forest green material, and there were acorn shapes sewed onto the fabric in gold thread. Arya fingered the golden acorns and smiled softly and secretly up at Gendry who hummed a tune so softly Jon could barely hear them. Arya’s eyes surprisingly filled with tears, and she hummed along for a moment, a watery smile forming on her face.

“It’s a cloak” Gendry whispered to her, “to keep you warm. My forest lass.”

Before Gendry could stop her, Arya had leaned over and kissed him chastely on the cheek, right there in front of all the lords of the North as well as Arya’s suitors. Gendry reddened, then nudged the bundle in her knees with his own knee. “Keep on.” He told her. “There’s more.”

“There’s always more with you,” Arya teased happily, squeezing his hand with hers. Jon knew the cloak must have been a reference to something on their journeys but was not sure what, as there were some things about it Arya kept from even him.

When Arya finished unveiling the sword, she gasped. Gendry was studying her face apprehensively.

The sword was clearly made of Valyrian steel but the color was not the regular dark gray but rather a lighter icy gray-blue, eerily reminiscent of winter roses. Arya had gripped the sword by the handle and as it moved, the steel danced. It was the length of a bastard sword, like Longclaw. Jon could see the end of the onyx black hilt was carved into the shape of a gray and white direwolf. _Nymeria_. Inlaid at the top of the hilt just below the blade, on both sides, were large gems of dark gray that reminded Jon of the exact color of Arya’s eyes.

The hall had fallen silent and most everyone’s eyes were on the high table and the magnificent blade. Eddard watched approvingly, Catelyn with her lips pursed. Arya was now holding the blade out in front of her. She was staring at it in wonder.

“Gendry.” The name on her lips spoke volumes. Jon was quite sure Arya hadn’t sounded or look this amazed when he’d gifted her Needle. Then again, this was something else altogether.

Arya managed to tear her eyes away from the sword to gaze blearily at Gendry. “When?” Her voice was hoarse.

His cheeks pink, Gendry looked down at the table. “It’s taken me a good almost yeah and a half to complete it, but only because Tobho never did finish teachin’ me how...it took me a few different tries and a lot of steel but...”

Arya’s voice was wet when she spoke. “It’s perfect,” she said, but it sounded like I love you.

Gendry’s darkened, now hooded eyes bored into hers unapologetically.

Suddenly, without looking at him, Arya was carefully handing Jon the sword. He took it in confusion then watched, amused, as Arya hopped swiftly into the smith’s lap and kissed him full on the mouth, not giving a damn that the eyes of everyone in the hall was on them.

Between kisses, Jon heard her tell the smith, “You’re mine.” Jon’s smile faded, the words he’d told his first love, echoing harshly in his ears, and he remembered the girl who had been kissed by fire.

“I’m yours.” The bull agreed softly before kissing Jon’s sister again.

Jon knew the smith meant it. Nothing less could have made the boy respond to Arya’s affections here in front of everyone consequences be damned.

Before the smith allowed Arya to slide back into her seat, he clasped the green, acorn cloak around her shoulders, and she reveled in it as she took her sword back from Jon.

“Every sword needs a name.” Jon told his sister, a small, sad smile playing on his lips.

Arya smiled back happily.

She turned back toward Gendry who had a knowing look in his eye. “Mercy.” The two said at the same time.

Jon smiled wryly. He’d heard enough of their adventures to think he knew what they meant by it, but they seemed to understand the sword’s new name’s meaning much better than Jon did.

“What’s the first thing I should know about swords?” Arya had turned back to Jon and was smiling conspiratorially at him now too.

“Stick ‘em with the pointy end.” Jon chuckled as Arya laughed.

Behind Arya, Jon could see Rickon handing Gendry something else. _There’s more_ , Jon thought in Gendry’s voice. _There’s always more with you_ , Jon thought in Arya’s voice. How was it, Jon thought, that Arya, the most adamant of his siblings against marriage, had ended up finding someone who complemented her perfectly in every way, who made her happier than Jon had ever thought anyone had a right to be.

The guests of Winterfell, there for Arya’s name day, mostly went back to dancing and speaking, though there was now an awkward lull. Jon noticed both Ned Dayne and Aegon watching his sister through narrowed eyes, their pinks cheek, the first looking angrier than the other. Aegon, at least, had been warned. Both watched jealously as Arya received her next presents from Gendry.

Jon saw Gendry had procured a pretty leather scabbard into which Mercy fit perfectly. Next was a light gray shield, the silhouette of a blue-gray direwolf engraved onto it. Small but sturdy. Gendry had made that one himself too. Then the next present that made Jon’s little sister gasp with delight again. Jon gazed at it appreciatively. It was a helm made in the likeness of a direwolf. Jon remembered having seen a helm similar to it, but it belonged to the smith and was in the likeness of a bull.

Arya immediately put the helm on. It fit her head perfectly. She leaned over and gave her smith another kiss. This time, he didn’t try to stop her.

“I want to go test all of these out _now_.” She insisted then.

“As m’lady commands.” Gendry whispered back.

Arya insisted Jon accompany them. She wanted to try her hand at beating Longclaw.

He obeyed gladly. He might be king now, but Arya would always come first.

Gendry watched as they dueled. Both Gendry and Jon had insisted Arya wear her armor, use her shield and wear light steel gauntlets. Valyrian steel was sharp; one small mishap and she could be wounded gravely. Though they both knew very well, Arya was more like to wound one of them before wounding herself. Still, she was used to fighting with lighter swords. The extra protection could only help, not hurt.

Jon managed to disarm his little sister first. He knew better than to go easy on her. She’d clout him upside the head if he did. Besides, it was better for her to actually practice, not just play. Arya disarmed him the next two times, then he disarmed her again.

When it was Gendry’s turn to try his hand against hers, she disarmed him each time. When he was using Longclaw. When he picked up his war hammer instead, he disarmed her all three times.

Hours later, Gendry left Arya and Jon outside the forge to go wash up.

“I’ve never really see you fight before, little sister. Not truly.” Jon told her in admiration, as they sat outside the forge drinking wine.

“And? Am I better or worse than you thought?” Arya dared.

“Worse.” Jon earned himself a punch in the side. “No,” he said seriously. “You’re a fierce warrior.”

“A wolf,” Arya grinned wolfishly. She hefted her new Valyrian steel sword, in its scabbard, onto her lap. “And this is my claw.”

“Aye.” Jon agreed with a rueful smile. “It’s a beautiful sword, little sister.”

“Don’t tell, Gendry.” Arya joked. “His head’s big enough already as it is.”

Jon laughed. “I’m sure he doesn’t think it’s near as beautiful as you.”

He succeeded in getting Arya to blush. “Shut up. I’m not beautiful. I’m fierce.”

“What’s the difference?” Jon asked her, and she blushed some more.

“That boy loves you more than anything.” Jon told her truthfully.

Arya looked curiously at him. They’d never spoken before of her relationship with the smith.

“While we were gone...he missed you incredibly.” Jon admitted, remembering how Gendry either spoke of only Arya, or had this faraway look in his eyes indicating he was thinking of her. “I think he still suffers from when you were separated by the Hound. It haunts him to this day.”

Arya looked at her feet. “I know. I--.” She paused. “It won’t happen again.” She said firmly. “With any of us.”

Jon chuckled. “What about when you get married?”

Arya turned red now. “Who said-.”

“Oh, little one.” He lamented, taking her hand in his. “It doesn’t need saying.”

“I’m not little,” she argued, but looked pleased all the same.

Late that night, when the last stragglers at the feast were finally disbursing, Jon found Gendry outside the forge again. The smith was polishing Arya’s new sword, which had taken a bit of a beating earlier, or rather, had given a bit of a beating to Longclaw and the war hammer. Mercy still looked as if it had never been touched.

“Your Grace,” Gendry mumbled. He looked uncertain now, almost guilty.

“Come now, Gendry.” Jon said insistently. “After all we’ve been through together, there’s no need for formalities. You’re a brother to me now.”

They both looked at the blade, which was reflecting the fire that came from within the forge in a way that made it look almost as if the blade was on fire itself.

“This blade is beautifully wrought, Gendry.” Jon reached a hand out for the sword. Gendry handed it to him carefully by the hilt.

“Thank you.” The smith looked uncertain again though. “I know you gave Arry her first blade. I didn’t- I wasn’t-.” He paused. “She’s been needing a new sword is all.”

Jon blinked at Gendry, then smiled. “Of course. I’m very glad you made it for her with your own two hands. You’re very talented Gendry.”

The smith reddened, perceptibly so even under the glow of the firelight coming from the forge. Jon was weighing the sword in his hand and swinging the bastard blade around with grace.

“You must love her very much.” Jon said simply.

Gendry didn’t blanch at that nor even blush. “I do. She’s my family. She’s my-.” A pause. “She’s the best part of me.”

Jon nodded and finally met the smith’s eyes. “She always did love bastards best.” Jon joked.

Gendry couldn’t help but return the grin. “Thank the gods for that.” Gendry chuckled.

“When?” Jon asked.

Gendry looked confused now as he took the sword gently back from Jon and plunged it into its sheathe.

“When did you grow to love her as you do?” Jon clarified.

“I’d like to say the moment I meant her, but-.” Gendry smiled fondly as if remembering. “The very first time I saw her she was challenging two boys, both twice as big as her, with a wooden stick. She had them bleedin’ and cryin’. They wouldn’t even go near her for days after that.”

Jon laughed appreciatively, remembering when a girl, not unlike Arya, had challenged a different handful of armed men of the Night’s Watch, north of the Wall. Ygritte had been just as strong and ferocious. A pang of her absence stabbed him in the chest.

“I know you’ve heard all the stories,” Gendry continued, looking lost in thought at the memories. “I think it was when Amory Lorch’s men captured us, just after they killed Yoren.” Jon remembered Yoren, remembered the day he’d left the Wall to bring more recruits from King’s Landing. He’d never returned. “They got me first. It was my fault. I was a loud, lumbering bull, she told me. And she was right. I was so glad though. They hadn’t gotten her. I knew she’d be smart, go back to the others and get away with them.”

“But she didn’t.” Jon remembered this part of the story best because he’d been so mad too that Arya hadn’t fled.

“No,” Gendry looked pained. “She came back for me.” His voice was hoarse. “I was so angry with her.”

Jon nodded in agreement. She’d had a chance at that point. To get away. Maybe to be safe. Maybe to be free.

“But then...” Gendry took another long pause. It seemed as if some of the words were hard for him to speak. “No one had ever come back for me before.”

Jon knew the feeling. While he’d grown up with a family, unlike Gendry, he’d never felt equal to them. Except for Arya. She was the only one who made him feel like he truly had someone.

“When I yelled at her, she got mad at me. ‘I couldn’t leave you,’ she told me. ‘You’re my pack.’”

Jon’s throat grew dry. Arya had lost her pack. Robb. Sansa. Bran. Rickon. Even him, Jon. So she’d made a new one. With Gendry.

“I’d never felt like that before,” Gendry said in a choked voice. “After my mum died...they’d all gotten rid of me. Everyone I thought might’ve cared. But Arry...when they took me...she didn’t think twice about coming back for me. Even if it meant she’d be taken too, or killed.”

Jon remembered Ygritte then. And how she’d shot him, shot him only, even though she could have killed him. How she’d come back too. The smile they’d shared right before she died.

“It was that moment then,” Gendry said, unsure. “Or maybe all of them. I think I fall in love with her more every time I see her, if that’s possible.”

Gendry was the slightest bit pink in the cheeks now. “Sorry, it may sound stupid...”

“No.” Jon said fiercely. “I understand completely.”

“What about you?” Gendry asked suddenly, as if he was saying it before he lost his nerve. “When did you know you loved your wife?”

Jon started. Daenerys, he knew Gendry meant. But it was Ygritte he couldn’t get off his mind. Even now, years later.

“Maybe from the first moment,” Jon admitted. “Or every single time after, like you said. But most likely when she could have killed me but she didn’t, even though a part of her wanted to.”

Gendry blinked. “You’re not talking about the queen.” He said knowingly.

“No.” Jon said forlornly.

“You lost her?” Gendry asked.

“Yes,” Jon said simply.

“I’m sorry.” Gendry said sadly.

“Me too.” Jon replied. Then, “She wasn’t a noble either.”

Gendry looked at Jon cautiously.

“But she’s one of the best persons I’ve known. Nobility doesn’t make the person, Gendry.”

“Yes.” Gendry agreed guardedly.

“Arya’s mother wrote to me a few moons past.” Jon admitted. “She’s never done that before. Not even since she found out the truth of my parentage.”

Gendry waited.

“She asked that I legitimize you.”

Gendry looked startled. “Your Grace, I didn’t-.”

“I know you didn’t,” Jon interrupted. “But it’s your right all the same.”

“I didn’t grow up a lord.”

“No,” Jon agreed. “But I know a lot of lords. Not even half of them have your strength or your honor.”

Gendry didn’t have anything to say to that.

“Would you have me do it? You could marry her. Storms End would be yours.”

“I-.” Gendry looked pained again. “It’s not up to me, your Grace.”

Jon blinked understandingly. “Arya?” he called out loudly. “What would you have me do?”

A bang and a curse came from inside the forge. She’d been caught. But Jon wasn’t upset at all.

“Do it, you stupid bull.” She groaned, probably from whatever had fallen on her head when Jon had startled her.

Jon smiled at Gendry and reached out an arm to embrace him.

“Welcome to the family, brother.” Jon clapped Gendry on the back.

“Thank you, br-.” Gendry faltered on the word, but when he spoke again, Jon heard a smile in his voice. “Thank you, brother.”


	4. Robb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love big brother feels! Especially with the Starks. I've never written Robb before really, so a little worried about how it went, but pleased with how it came out overall. Hope it meets all of your expectations too! Thanks so much to everyone for reading!

Robb watched as Arya got into a fight with one of Aegon Targaryen’s men. He couldn’t hear what the two had been talking about, so he didn’t know what had started the fight, though he had a fairly good idea. All Robb knew was that Arya had thrown the first punch. Now she was rolling around on the ground, straddling the man and landing punches where she could. At first, the man didn’t seem to want to hit her back and settled on defending himself, but when Arya hit his nose so hard it started bleeding, the man’s face contorted in rage, and he lashed out. 

When the fight had first begun, Robb had been amused. But then he’d met his lady mother’s eyes, and she had mouthed at him desperately to go intervene. 

Robb was halfway across the hall when another figure was swiftly accosting Arya. The next moment Gendry was clutching a struggling Arya in his arms while the man cursed at her from where he lay sprawled on the ground, blood pulsing from his now crooked nose.

One cold, threatening look from Gendry later, the man shut up, though he continued glaring daggers Arya’s way. Gendry half-dragged, half-carried Arya away and back toward the high table, toward Robb. She was still struggling, even against Gendry’s arms. 

“He was calling you a bastard and a liar and a craven,” Arya snarled over her shoulder at Gendry as they neared Robb.

“Who cares? He’s just sore because I beat him and his little friends in the practice yard.” Gendry tried to reassure her.

As they approached him, Robb grinned. “You gave him a good beating, little sister. Best hope it doesn’t reach the prince’s ears. He won’t be happy to hear you bloodied one of his men.”

Arya’s eyes flashed. “Best hope he doesn’t reach _me_ or he’s next.” Arya snapped. “He’s the one going around telling everyone Gendry didn’t really fight in the war. And he’s saying all Gendry did back then was dishonor me.”

Robb’s cheeks pinked at the implication about his sister, but it was Gendry who responded.

“He’s another one who’s just sore ‘cause he lost to me.” Gendry chuckled to the girl half gathered in his arms. Robb knew he wasn’t referring to the practice yard either.

Robb fell into step with the smith as they headed toward the high table and away from the ruckus.

“Put me down,” Arya finally stopped struggling and just grasped at Gendry’s hands wrapped tight around her middle.

Gendry stopped there in the middle of the hall then. “Only if you promise not to go back and finish him off.” Gendry’s voice was firm, though it hid a laugh.

Arya glared over her shoulder at him. “You’re right,” she finally relented, “he’s not worth it.”

Gendry relaxed his arms around Robb’s little sister, and she slid down to her feet, still leaning against the smith.

“You don’t believe anything they’re saying, do you?” Gendry was leaning down to murmur into her ear.

Arya spun around and punched the smith so hard in the shoulder that he flinched. “Of course not, you stupid!” 

“Arya,” Robb warned. “Mother is watching.”

Gendry had caught Arya’s wrists in one hand. “Then what does it matter what they say? As long as you know what’s true.”

Arya groaned in frustration. Heeding Robb’s words, her eyes on the high table, she let her arms drop. 

Robb turned to see Catelyn staring sternly at Arya. Catelyn’s eyes met Robb’s. She jerked her head towards Arya, and Robb knew his mother wanted him to escort Arya away before she got into more trouble. When Robb turned back to do so, however, the smith was, as always, ten steps ahead. He had Arya’s elbow in one hand and was leading her out of the hall.

Another pang of impatience colored Robb’s insides. Robb was glad the smith had been close at hand to stop Arya fighting, especially before the other man had managed to retaliate in kind, but he also felt a pinprick of irritation. He’d been on his way to carry his sister off and would have gotten there in enough time. He hadn’t needed Gendry’s interference. Robb shrugged the feeling away. It was good Gendry had been there.

The smith usually was though, before anyone else. Just the week before, Arya had climbed halfway up the broken tower to rescue an injured crow that perched on a broken brick that jutted out and away from the tower. Robb had run with a long rope, up to the castle parapet and along it until he came to the broken tower. He had planned to drop the rope to her so she could tie it around her waist in case she fell. When Robb had gotten to the tower window, the smith had already climbed the tower behind Arya. Gendry had held the injured bird delicately in one hand and climbed down slowly below Arya to catch her in case she fell. 

Another time, Arya had gotten into a fist fight with Elmar Frey, one of the hostages that Robb’s lord father Eddard had demanded of the Freys for the assurance that they would not rise against the throne. The man was larger than her and managed to throw in a few good punches that left Arya bruised. Then Gendry had been there, had tugged Arya away from the fray before replacing her fists with his own. Aegon’s man today had only been lucky because he hadn’t had the time to hit Arya back. The Frey boy had been bedridden for weeks. Robb’s father had forgiven the infraction only because Gendry had been coming to Arya’s defense, as much as Arya insisted she hadn’t needed the help.

To put it mildly, when it came to his littlest sister, Robb felt misplaced these days. Ever since she’d finally come back. The Starks had all been so happy to see her, the last of them missing. Arya was alive. That was enough. No one wanted to make her do anything she didn’t want to do lest she run away or disappear again somehow. Be a lady. Be polite, even. Wear a dress. No one made her stay away from the smith either. Soon, before they realized what that really meant, it was too late. Now, Gendry went wherever Arya went, and she didn’t need her big brothers anymore. Like the rest of them, Robb had been surprised that, out of all the Starks, Arya had been the one to come away from the war with a true match.

The next morning, Robb rode out with Gendry, Arya and Rickon, along with a handful of his lord father’s guard, to the wolfswood to ride and hunt. Ned Dayne and Aegon insisted on tagging along. Despite Arya’s obvious proclamation of a choice of suitor on her name day, along with his brother’s legitimization of Gendry, Dayne and the prince both did not seem to be getting the hint. At least not enough to stop pursuing his sister.

Gendry and Rickon led the column side-by-side, followed by Robb and Arya, the rest of them trailing behind. Arya wore her brand new sword, from Gendry, proudly on her hip. Her name day gift from Robb, the bow and arrows, she wore slung over her shoulder.

To Dayne’s obvious pleasure, Arya rode her new sand steed; from where he rode behind them in the column, the boy kept reminding Arya of her promise to race him on the horse.

“A sand steed,” Aegon snorted. “I’ll bet you a hundred gold dragons my courser can beat yours at any race.” The prince challenged the Dayne boy haughtily.

Dayne watched Arya as he spoke. With a chuckle, he said, “I’ll take that wager, but you may as well hand the gold over now.”

Meanwhile, Arya was laughing at something Gendry had just told Rickon and was not paying the slightest attention to the men behind her. Rickon had taken almost as well to the smith as Arya had. Most like because of his experience with Arya, Gendry was good at anticipating Rickon’s wild tantrums or outbursts. Nothing the boy said, no matter how bloody or shocking fazed the smith. 

“A stag!” The younger boy shouted excitedly. With that, he bounded off across the open field, digging his heels into his own horse, a spear, one of his only remnants remaining from Skagos, clutched tightly in his right hand.

Gendry turned swiftly toward Arya, as if for permission. “Go,” she urged, and Gendry trotted off after the younger boy. 

Robb laughed along with Arya, watching the bull chase the wild wolf. Gendry was still not perfectly accustomed to sitting a horse, and his large size made him look awkward in the saddle.

“When is the wedding, little wolf?” Robb teased Arya so as not to be overheard. 

She turned a bright red. “Shut up!” 

“Lady Stark and Lord Baratheon.”

“Don’t!” Arya threw a chestnut at him now from her saddlebag. It bounced off his leg. “It’s just Arya. And Gendry. Or stupid, if you want.”

Robb laughed. “I can’t be calling my lady sister stupid.” He protested in jest.

“I meant _him_ ,” Arya growled, but started to laugh along with her brother all the same. 

“They’re off to kill a stag, and he _is_ a stag.” Robb nodded towards the retreating backs of Gendry and Rickon. 

“He’s not a stag. He’s a bull.” Arya protested. “A stupid, stubborn one.”

Robb laughed again. “Aye, that’s more fitting. You’ll be needing a new sigil then.”

Another chestnut got Robb in the side of the head, and he laughed as Arya argued, “I’m still a wolf. Don’t make me prove it.” 

“Well, then, little sister. You going to make him take your name and sigil then?”

“And why not?” Arya challenged him, then scoffed. “Who says we have to get married anyway? Mother?”

Robb was almost taken aback. “Don’t you want to?”

Arya was, in turn, taken aback. “What’s the difference? Whether we marry or not, he’s mine.”

Robb laughed now. “Might be the only way to get rid of these buggers.” Robb tossed his head backwards to indicate he meant the prince and Dayne.

Arya spared a moment to frown their way. “We’ll see.” She shot back.

“Ready to race?” She asked the two behind them bluntly.

Both boys rushed forward on their horses. 

“Will you give me your favor, my lady?” Dayne winked at Arya, and Robb had to hold back a groan.

Arya just grinned wickedly. “My favor will be not throwing you off your horse, Dayne.”

“To the lake.” Arya commanded.

Robb completed the count. At ten, the three were off, their horses kicking up clots of dirt and grass in their wake. 

Robb and his father’s men trotted behind them at a distance. From where he was, Robb could see that Arya had quickly gained the lead. It wasn’t simply that Arya was lighter or knew the terrain better than the other two. She was a true horse woman of the north. She’d been riding since before she could walk. 

Slowly, Dayne was gaining on Arya, and Aegon on Dayne. A light mist began then. The morning had been cloudy and the sky had threatened thunder and rain. Arya nearly stood now in her stirrups. She disappeared over a knoll, Dayne and Aegon as well seconds after. Robb raced ahead now, somehow uneasy. Nymeria, Grey Wind and Shaggydog had disappeared to hunt almost immediately after they had left the gates of Winterfell. Robb didn’t like losing sight of his sisters outside of Winterfell. He usually didn’t mind, as long as Gendry or Jon were with her. But Jon was far away in King’s Landing and Gendry had run off after Rickon.

Robb finally crowned the same knoll, to see that Arya and Dayne were neck and neck, Aegon trailing a yard behind.

Suddenly a chill ran down Robb’s back. He felt the shadow approach before he actually saw it. Looking overhead as he rode forward, he saw the unmistakable shape of a large flying beast, obscured by the clouds. _Viserion_. Ahead, Aegon, looking unconcerned, was slowing his horse to a trot. As the dragon descended, Aegon stood nimbly in his saddle. The dragon neared the three riders. Arya only just then noticed, swiveling sideways in her seat. Her face was one of pure annoyance. Obviously Aegon thought he was being clever; if he managed to mount the dragon, he’d arrive to the lake before the other two with long moments to spare.

Suddenly, as Viserion fanned his wings out to their full width in order to reach the height of Aegon’s horse, Arya’s steed reared. With her eyes still behind her on Viserion, Arya hadn’t been expecting it. She fell sideways in her saddle, losing the reins. She would have tumbled off completely, except her left foot was caught in the stirrup. She hung off the side, her face and hands dragging along the rough terrain until she hoisted herself up as high above it as she could. Robb choked back a breath and spurred his own horse, already foaming at the mouth, forward that he might catch her before she was dragged again or thrown off completely.

Ahead was pure confusion. Aegon didn’t seem to have realized that Arya was in danger. He was swinging himself precariously onto Viserion’s back. Dayne was spurring his own steed, so as to catch up to Arya’s. Dayne was gaining, but on the wrong side of the horse. Were Arya to fall at that moment, Dayne’s steed would trample her. Robb’s own horse began to rear as it got closer to Viserion, who was again beginning to ascend. Aegon, it seemed, had only begun to grasp the consequences he had wrought with his stunt.

Robb kept a tight hold on the reins of his horse, urging it forward. Standing in his own stirrups and leaning forward, he found himself catching up to Arya and Ned Dayne. Dayne was attempting to lean off his own horse and pull Arya back up. Instead, he should have been trying to get control of the horse. Arya was yelling something unintelligible at Ned while, at the same time, trying to lift herself up with only the strength of her middle. Her face was red and scratched from where it had dragged along the tree roots and stones before managing to lift herself up. Her face was pale and twisted in pain, and Robb could now see that her leg was twisted at an unnatural angle.

Worry and anxiety rose in him like an overflowing fountain. If Dayne had not sidled up so close, Arya would have been able to twist back up into her saddle and gain control of the steed. The steed. Robb cursed out loud. He shouldn’t have let Arya race on a horse she was unfamiliar with. This was the first time she’d ridden the beast, so it could not know her, and she could not know the horse. 

Dayne finally seemed to have gotten the message and was falling back to swing around Arya’s horse. But Robb had finally gotten there first. He swung his own courser around Arya’s steed and rode side-by-side the steed, leaning over unsteadily until he caught the reins in his gloved hands. Slowly, Robb eased the horse to a trot and then to a stop. Ignoring Dayne’s pleas and request of Arya’s well-being, Robb hoped lithely off his horse, throwing the reins at Jory Cassel, who had been on his heels the entire ride. 

“Arya.” Robb’s hoarse voice begged.

She was groaning in pain, hanging directly down off the side of the horse now. “Get. Me. Off.” Arya said through clenched teeth. 

Robb circled around her and lifted her torso up. She hissed in pain at the way that movement jostled her leg.

“I’m sorry, love.” He held her close, as Jory untangled her leg from the saddle and stirrups. Arya cursed the entire time, and to his own pain, Robb saw tears streaking her dirt ridden face.

Dayne was at his side now and helped Robb drag Arya down off the horse and to the floor. Arya cried out loudly when her leg hit the floor. 

Suddenly, before Robb could stop her, Arya had reached her left arm out and smacked Dayne stingingly across the face. He stepped back in shock, holding one palm up to his red-tinged face. Robb crouched down next to her and held her hand. She squeezed his own hand painfully.

“I told you to get away,” Arya was sobbing and clenching at her knee, toward her ankle, with her right hand. Several of the cuts on her face were bleeding freely, her blood mingling with the salt of her tears and running down her face. “I needed the space to sit up and grab the reins.” She cried out again when she moved her own leg accidentally by shifting where she lay.

“I’m sorry, m’la-.”

“What’s going on?” To his credit, Aegon’s voice was genuinely worried. 

“You!” Arya snarled through tears. Though it caused her great pain, Arya wrenched her hand out of Robb’s, reached over her shoulder and nocked an arrow to her bow, quicker than Robb could stop her.

Aegon’s mouth was an ‘o’ of surprise, and he lifted his hands slowly in surrender. Thankfully, he’d left the dragon far behind, else they might all be charred by now.

“What made you think,” Arya said through clenched teeth, “it was a good idea to bring _a dragon_ down on horses?”

“Arya,” Robb said carefully in a low voice. “That’s your prince you’re aiming at. The king wouldn’t be pleased to know it.” 

“Jon would do the same,” Arya argued with a glare, but she lowered the bow all the same.

Robb couldn’t say she was wrong.

“I thought you were supposed to be clever.” Arya told Aegon coldly, then looked away as if neither Dayne nor Aegon had ever been there.

“We have to get you back to Maester Luwin, Arya,” Robb urged. 

Arya’s eyes were closed now, and fresh tears, from pain more than anything, came pouring from her eyes. She nodded slightly, but when they tried to lift her, so she could ride on Robb’s horse with him, she cried out and clung to the ground.

Robb stared down at her worriedly. “Is it broken or...” He looked anxiously at Jory.

“-dree.” Arya cried incoherently.

Robb crouched quickly down next to his sister, putting an arm comfortingly around her shoulders. “What was that, love?” He grasped her hand again, letting her squeeze it painfully.

“Gendry.” She pleaded. “I want Gendry.” Arya’s face was pale, her teeth clamped down hard, her jaw set.

Robb’s heart stuttered. He kept her hand clasped and stood, looking out across the fields for the smith. How far had he been? Would he have heard the commotion?

“Where’s Gendry?” Arya squeezed Robb’s hand ever harder.

Robb’s brow furrowed and he took a knee again by his sister. “He’s not here, love, and we have to get you back to the castle. It’s going to hurt like hell, but you just squeeze my hand as hard as you have to. Maester Luwin will have milk of the poppy for you as soon as we get there, and all the pain will go away.” Robb tried to comfort her, but knew somehow, it was not enough.

Arya leaned into Robb, but she shook her head. “Gendry.” She repeated. “I need Gendry.” 

Suddenly, a racket of noise exploded from deep within the woods behind them. Jory and his men began to unsheathe their swords, but soon three large direwolves were darting out of the thicket. Then, thankfully, Robb saw two more riders barreling through the trees, one his little brother, the other the smith.

Gendry’s eyes were surprised at the sight of them at first, then fearful when he caught sight of Arya cradled in Robb’s arms. The smith was off the horse before it had even stopped galloping; the horse ran off on its own, stopping nearer the middle of the field to graze. 

The smith, meanwhile, landed heavily, but was not deterred. He rushed to Arya’s right side and when she saw him, she sighed his name in relief. Robb felt her leave his grasp and curl into Gendry’s.

When he spoke, Gendry’s voice scorched. “What happened?” Gendry held Arya’s head to his chest and his fingers trickled lightly down her leg toward her ankle.

In a low voice, Robb quickly explained why and how Arya had been dragged through an acre or two of land. Without moving, which would have made Arya uncomfortable from pain, Gendry looked up at both the prince and the lord of Starfall with a look that told them he would kill them both if he could. His blue eyes looked afire with fury, and his mouth twitched in anger.

Then Gendry looked back down at the girl in his arms, and his eyes softened. He used the back of his hand to wipe blood that was trickling down Arya’s forehead and towards her eyes.

“You’ll be alright,” he promised her.

“Stupid bull,” Arya muttered into the smith’s jerkin. “Where have you been?”

Gendry chuckled, stroking Arya’s hair. “I leave you alone for five minutes and you go and get yourself nearly killed.”

“My lord,” Jory Cassel spoke, “we should get my lady back to the castle.”

Gendry looked startled when he realized Jory was speaking to him and not Robb. “Can I pick you up?” He asked Arya softly.

Hesitantly, Arya nodded her head. 

“Fear cuts deeper than swords,” Gendry murmured softly into her hair. Arya’s lips, previously twisted in pain, tilted into a weak smile.

From beyond, Aegon called out, “I can take her back on Viserion. It’s the quickest way.”

Both Arya and Gendry ignored him, though Robb sent him an appreciative smile. 

“If he speaks one more time-.” Arya started.

Gendry silenced her with a kiss to the top of her head. “What will it be, m’lady, dragon or horse?”

“A bull.” She grunted in pain, as he began to lift her up. Robb gently adjusted her leg in Gendry’s arms so it would be more comfortable. 

Gendry chuckled. “Dragon it is.”

“Not with him,” Arya moaned into Gendry’s neck.

“Viserion.” Gendry called loudly.

Across the way, the prince flinched. He didn’t like it when Gendry addressed his dragon directly. Nor when Gendry rode either of the other dragons. Nor indeed that all three dragons had taken easily to Gendry and had developed a fondness for him that hardly any others inspired in their reptilian hearts.

A gust of wind blew across them as Viserion floated down from above to land in their midst. The horses all about reared, and Jory and the others struggled to keep them under control. Carrying Arya, Gendry walked gingerly toward the dragon. Aegon appeared at the smith’s side.

“If you hand her up to me, I can-.”

“Gendry’s taking me.” Arya snapped, her voice muffled from where she hid her face in the gap between Gendry’s neck and shoulder.

“As m’lady commands, coz.” Gendry shrugged nonchalantly at Aegon who only had a defeated set of eyes for the woman in the smith’s arms. Though he referred to Aegon as his cousin only to annoy him, there was truth to it, as they were distantly related through Gendry’s great grandmother.

Viserion, who seemed to understand Arya’s precarious condition, crouched low to the ground. With Robb’s help, Gendry clambered over Viserion’s wing and settled Arya into Aegon’s saddle. Robb and Gendry secured Arya’s leg against Viserion’s side so it wouldn’t shift while up in the air. Gendry settled into the saddle behind her and wrapped one arm around her.

As Robb turned to go, Arya grasped his hand tightly. “No.” She mumbled. “You too, Robb. Please.” 

Robb was surprised at the plea, though it also warmed him to know his sister still needed him sometimes. “Of course, little one.”

Robb glanced at Gendry who blinked a smile at him. “It’ll be safer to have you in front, so she don’t move around a lot too.” Gendry agreed.

Robb gave orders for Jory and the other men to take his, Arya’s and Gendry’s horses back to Winterfell with them. He argued for a few moments with Rickon who wanted to ride with them desperately and refused to get back on his horse until he could; it wasn’t until Aegon promised to take Rickon flying on Viserion once they got back that the younger boy sullenly agreed to get back on his horse, though Shaggydog’s hackles were raised by then. 

Robb once more ensured that Arya and her smith were secure in the saddle before picking up the dragon’s heavy reins. 

“ _Sōvēs_.” Gendry uttered from behind. The Valyrian word for fly, Robb knew. He’d seen both Jon and Dany fly often enough to remember. 

Soon they were soaring, and Robb could see the towers of Winterfell’s castle in the close distance. His belly swooped when he looked down, Viserion’s wings jarring him as the dragon turned toward the castle. His sister’s small hands gripped the top of his cloak. Robb reached one hand up to his shoulder and covered her warm hand with his.

Soon, they were landing in the castle courtyard. Robb helped Gendry lift Arya from the saddle, gingerly so as not to jostle her leg. Even then, she flinched and cursed several times. Finally, they made it up to Maester Luwin’s tower where the maester tutted at them and muttered under his breath about Arya’s recklessness. 

Robb clapped the maester on the back. “No more reckless than Jon and me at her age.” 

Maester Luwin scoffed. “Much more.” As he gathered herbs to make a poultice for the pain, he went on to recount the last several times, all in the past week, that he’d healed Arya in some way. 

Across the room, Gendry was slowly coaxing Arya into drinking the small cup of milk of the poppy Luwin had thrust into his hands. Robb helped the maester gather what he needed, helped him grind the herbs into the paste. Now Gendry was using a cool, wet cloth to wipe the dirt and blood from Arya’s face. She was smiling somewhat now, if still a bit pained. 

Only moments later, Luwin was shooing both Gendry and Robb out of his chambers. He gave them two large bowls to fill with the snow that refused to melt outside of the castle gates.

Robb followed Gendry down the tower steps, both of them taking the stairs two at a time in the rush to get the ice to soothe Arya’s ankle.

As they walked side-by-side across the courtyard, Robb glanced at Gendry only to see him looking uncertain, as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. 

“She’ll be alright.” Robb assured him.

Gendry glanced Robb’s way as if surprised he’d said anything. “Thank you.” His voice was gruff when he spoke.

It was Robb’s turn to be surprised. “For what?” He blurted.

“I mean...” With the hand that was not holding the bowl, Gendry clutched the back of his neck almost nervously. “For saving her. You stopped her horse.” 

Robb almost bit back that of course he’d saved her, she was his little sister, but knew Gendry hadn’t meant it that way. Gendry also looked incredibly pained when he said, “She could have been killed.”

Robb felt pity for the haunted look in Gendry’s eyes. “Aye, but it’d take a lot more than a stupid Dornishman and a dragon to finish her off.” 

Gendry couldn’t help but chuckle. “I hope so.” He responded, but his eyes darkened again. “I should have been there. She should’ve known better than to race a horse she’s never ridden before.”

Robb silently agreed on that last point, but out loud, he said. “It’s not your fault, Gendry. Once she puts her mind to something, it’s impossible to talk her out of it.”

As they crossed over the moat and towards the forest, a handful of his father’s guards shadowed them. Under his father’s orders, none of the Starks were to leave the castle grounds without protection.

Gendry had that stubborn look on his face that he got when Arya was arguing with him about something particularly stupid. “It’s still my fault.” His face was twisted almost in confusion. He hesitated before saying, “If I hadn’t waited this long to ask for her hand...” He glanced sideways at Robb almost worriedly as he spoke. “These bloody buggers would have cleared off by now.” 

Robb snorted with laughter. Gendry joined in.

Using the cups Luwin had given them along with the bowls, Gendry and Robb shoveled snow into the bowls silently for a few moments. 

Robb thought hard before he spoke. “Is it marriage for a certainty then?”

Gendry got that pained look again. “If she’ll have me.” The smith paused in his shoveling, hesitating again before speaking. “I wanted everyone’s blessing first...”

Robb blinked at him, as he packed the snow down into the bowl so he could fit more.

Gendry spoke again before he could. “I mean, I’d ask your father first, but...what I mean to say is...I’d want all of your blessings. I think it would mean a lot to her.” Gendry finally looked away, scooping more snow into his cup.

Robb looked away too. He was conflicted, one part happy for his sister and the smith, another part apprehensive. “Will you move her to Storm’s End with you?” He said suddenly. Though it had been a few years now, it still felt as if he’d only just gotten his sister back. 

Gendry gawked at him. “St- Storm’s End?” Gendry looked genuinely concerned now. “Will your father make us go there if we marry?” 

“Of course not.” Robb now felt one part confused, one part amused and another part relieved. He laughed. “Don’t you want to claim your land?”

Gendry shook his head vehemently. “It’s Edric who knows the land, the castle and the people, not me. It should go to him. If he ever comes back.” Gendry looked apprehensive now as they stood to deliver the snow back to Luwin. “I’d go if Arya wanted to, but she never would. The North is her home. I could never take that away from her. Not for a whole kingdom.”

Robb smiled brightly. It had been the right thing to say. “Well, then, Gendry. You have my blessing.” Robb paused, unsure if he should go on. Then, “You’re a good man, Gendry. I’m glad my sister found you.”

Gendry looked self-conscious. “And I, her.” 

Robb grinned sideways at the smith. “When will you ask her?”

“Tonight, if it means the bloody prince and Dayne will leave right away.”

They shared a laugh as said prince and lord trotted up the Kingsroad towards them and the castle, both looking the worse for wear and completely downtrodden.

“What are you two smiling about?” Arya asked suspiciously when they re-entered the maester’s chambers, snow in hand.

“At the beating you’re going to give those two idiots later when you’re better,” Robb said, making Gendry and Arya laugh. Even the maester cracked a smile as he scattered snow delicately over Arya’s ankle so as to bring down the swelling. 

“Who says I’m going to wait?” Arya growled.

They laughed again, but Gendry said, “I do,” as he smoothed her hair back away from her face and took her hand in his, hoping to distract her from the pain Luwin was causing by probing her ankle. 

As Robb went to inform his mother of Arya’s injury, he watched the two interact. Arya’s eyes softened almost every time she looked at the smith, unless he was the cause of her ire. And the smith, in kind, looked at the girl as if she was the only thing that existed. Yes, Robb was glad Gendry had come into her life. He wondered if he should warn the rest of his family the smith would be visiting them very soon with a surprising request. No, he smiled, he’d let them find out on their own.


	5. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to get this out. I've never written a Sansa pov before, and it was a lot harder than I thought, especially trying to do justice to both her character as well as to the relationship between the two sisters. I hope all my hard work has paid off. Let me know if you like/hate it!

"Don't!" The blacksmith warned in a voice meant to be menacing that only came out wary and defeated.

"Too late." Sansa's younger sister lilted at him in a sing-song voice as she poured the muddy water over his head.

Gendry sputtered and shivered as the cold, dirty water ran over him.

"Arya," Sansa began in a tone of warning that somehow also came out exasperated and defeated.

But her sister paid her no heed as she let the bucket fall too over the smith's head where it came to rest. He was frozen at first, but when he spoke, his voice echoed from under the bucket.

"You have five seconds, Arry." He held a large hand up to tick off the seconds with his fingers. He might look slightly ridiculous with the bucket on his head, but his obvious strength and size made clear he was capable of overcoming Sansa's sister easily. Not that he would ever hurt her, of course. But Arya's only hope of escaping retribution for the moment was her speed.

Sansa's little sister laughed menacingly before scurrying off towards the doors of the great hall. Knowing her, she had more in mind for the poor unsuspecting smith. And, there it was, a large sack of flour hidden behind their younger brother Rickon, who was obviously in on the farce. The poor smith would stride out the doors after Sansa's little sister only to be assaulted with a five kilo sack of flour.

Sansa had half a mind to warn the poor boy as he tore the bucket off his head to rush after her sister, but she knew Arya would never forgive her if she did. So she watched in half-amusement, half-exasperation as the smith walked right into the trap. With the cautious way he approached the doors to the hall, it was almost as if he knew what was coming, though it be inevitable.

Sure enough, moments later, the smith was cursing as the powder poured heavily over his form, blanketing him in thick layers of the white substance. As he was still wet from the bucket water, the flour clung to him and turned pasty.

Sansa stifled a laugh as he nearly fell in his attempt to trap her little sister between his arms. He succeeded and both of them went tumbling to the ground as Arya tried to escape.

Sansa prayed her mother was still at prayer and would not catch the two of them at their nonsense. Catelyn would be less forgiving of the smith then, Sansa knew, and the couple's impending marriage.

Sansa shook her head and hid a grin as the bride-to-be attempted to bite the arm of her groom-to-be, so as to get him to release her, but the smith knew better. He swiveled his arm out of Arya's way and turned her so her back was flesh to his chest, her head trapped between his own neck and shoulder, making it impossible for her to sink her teeth into him. That was when Gendry began to tickle Sansa's little sister.

Arya began giggling uncharacteristically when he did so but then violently lashed out, and the back of her head smashed into his face. Suddenly, Gendry was groaning in pain, and there was blood running down his lips, jaw and chin, from his nose.

Gendry released his hold on Arya, who hadn’t seemed to have realized the damage she’d inflicted on her betrothed. She used her newly won freedom to hurt Gendry some more by slamming her elbow hard into his stomach. Gendry doubled over clutching both his face and stomach as Arya dashed away from him. It wasn’t until she was halfway through the doors again that she turned and looked back over her shoulder, seemingly expecting to see Gendry after her again. But she did a double take when she saw him bent over, blood streaming over his right hand.

Arya stopped in her tracks and turned slowly to study the situation, as if half convinced this was a trick Gendry was pulling on her. “Serves you right for tickling me,” Sansa’s little sister said only half-heartedly victoriously, but her smile was uncertain at best.

Sansa strode towards them, a handkerchief out in her hands. “Arya, you hurt him,” she scolded, but in a softer tone than she might have in the days before the war.

Gendry had shifted on the ground, groaning still, as he tilted his head to staunch the flow of blood from his face which now dotted his tunic and sleeves. Sansa leaned over him carefully and offered the handkerchief to him.

“Is it broken?” She asked softly.

He shrugged his shoulders in cluelessness and plucked the handkerchief almost delicately from her fingers with a “Fanks so much” since his nose was plugged up.

Upon observing Sansa’s earnestness at the situation, Arya had suddenly rushed to her sister’s side, her brow etched in uncertainty and concern.

She crouched next to the boy, her hand coming to rest on his thigh. “Did I break it?” And Sansa was sure she’d never heard her sister sound so worried before, nor so tender.

Gendry only grunted in response, as he dabbed at his nose with Sansa’s handkerchief.

“Here,” Arya spoke gently again, reaching her hand up to take the cloth from him, but when she dabbed at his nose for him, her hand was not as gentle as her tone, and Gendry hissed in pain.

“Don’t be such a baby,” Arya snapped almost crossly, but she was more gentle when next she touched his nose with the handkerchief.

“Here, Arya,” Sansa offered another clean, neatly folded handkerchief.

Arya swiped it quickly from Sansa’s hands with a worried look up at her and a hasty, “thank you,” then dabbed some more at the blood on the smith’s face.

Suddenly, the smith was snatching Arya back into his arms, trapping her own at her sides so she couldn’t escape again. There was a sly smile on his face. Arya, meanwhile, looked enraged.

“You tricked me.” She sputtered. Then she called him a name that made Sansa exclaim, “Arya!”

Gendry’s nose looked only slightly crooked but the blood was certainly real. “No,” he teased at Arya, his face close to hers. “You really broke my bloody nose, but…” He nuzzled at her face with his swollen nose without actually making contact. “You were worried about me.” He said almost tenderly.

Arya growled. “Was not. Get your bloody nose away from me or I’ll break it again,” she threatened. But then, Gendry was tickling her mercilessly again, and she was laughing and shouting for him to stop. Instead he began gingerly planting bloody kisses down her face to get back at her.

Suddenly- “What is the meaning of this?”

Ned Stark rarely raised his voice. It was usually enough to achieve order for him to speak in that somber tone of his they were all used to. Sansa’s lady mother stood next to her lord father in the doorway watching distastefully the two rolling around on the ground, covered in muddy water, flour and blood.

When Gendry released her, Arya sprang up to stand between Gendry and her parents. “I’m sorry, father, I attacked Gendry.”

Sansa was surprised at how quick Arya was to confess. Before the war, when they’d been younger, she’d either run off or keep mum about whose fault was what. Arya was taking all the blame, Sansa realized, so none of it would be put on Gendry. Sansa felt a slight twinge of envy as she remembered days before the war when Arya would put the blame for their fights on Sansa, even if it was only half true.

As Sansa knew he would, her father appeared more exasperated than anything. He would forgive Arya anything, Sansa knew as well.

When he observed the blood on his younger daughter’s face, his brow furrowed. He took her small, sharp face in his hands and tilted it up towards him.

“Are you hurt, sweet one?” He asked worriedly. Sansa’s mother was at Ned’s elbow, inspecting Arya’s face with care.

Arya only laughed. “Gendry’s the one you should be worried about.”

That was when Ned caught sight of Gendry’s bloodied and battered face. Ned circled Arya with an impatient shake of the head and a gentle squeeze to her shoulder.

“Arya, what did you do?” Their lady mother chided.

“It was an accident,” Arya protested.

“Is it broken, lad?” Ned pulled the smith to his feet with care.

The boy was cradling his nose with one hand, Sansa’s crumpled handkerchief wet with blood between his fingers still. “I hope not, m’-.” The smith caught himself in time. “I mean, I don’t think so, father.”

Sansa had started in surprise the first time she’d heard the smith call her father that. But she’d become so used to it by now, she didn’t even blink.

Ned removed Gendry’s hand gently from his face and tilted the boy’s face up so he could take a look at his nose. Ned prodded Gendry’s nose softly. Even then, the boy flinched. Ned sighed. “Doesn’t seem broken but...best have Maester Luwin take a look.”

Ned looked sideways at his wife for confirmation. She only nodded and took her own clean handkerchief out. “Here.” She told Gendry delicately. She handed the clean handkerchief to him, taking Sansa’s soiled one from him.

Ned began escorting Gendry out of the great hall and to the maester. Arya ran after them.

“You must be more careful, little one,” Sansa’s father was telling her little sister as they disappeared from view.

Catelyn shared a tired smile with Sansa. “Your sister is going to be the death of me,” she sighed.

Sansa linked her arm with her mother’s as they strolled out to the yard. “I hope the swelling goes down soon,” Sansa murmured. “They’re to be married in two days time.”

To Sansa’s surprise, her mother only laughed. “Married.” Catelyn repeated almost disbelievingly. “I thought I’d have to fight tooth and nail to get my little Arya to agree to a husband.”

Sansa smiled dimly. “Instead, she fought tooth and nail for this one.” They shared a chuckle.

“Whatever the case, they’ll be married in two days. Even if he has a broken nose and her a torn dress.” Catelyn referred to the night before when Arya had tried on her gown, only to tear it seconds later when she’d chased Rickon around her chambers for making fun of her in a dress.

Sansa’s lady mother looked worn from all the planning of the nuptials. Arya, of course, had been difficult every step of the way. She’d insisted that all she’d wanted were the vows in the godswood and her family present, but Catelyn and Sansa had insisted on much more since the family present would include the king and queen, even if it was just Jon and Dany.

Catelyn sighed. “Now all that’s left is to make a match for you, my love.” Sansa’s mother patted her hand gently.

Sansa tensed only slightly. “As long as I don’t have to leave home too soon, mother.” She replied.

Sansa knew her mother was looking forward to the day she could plan Sansa’s wedding. She’d hardly meet with as much resistance as Arya had met her with so far. Right after the war, Sansa had insisted she never wanted to marry again. Lately, she’d been thinking of the prospect more and more. Still, there was the feeling she had that insisted she never wanted to leave home again ever.

Then again, Winterfell would be Robb’s one day. Arya’s betrothed was officially the heir of Storm’s End, even if he didn’t want it, so they could both make that their home at any time. Even if they didn’t, Sansa knew those two could make a home out of anywhere, the way they’d lived together throughout the war. Bran would eventually marry Meera and join her and her brother at Greywater Watch. Jon, of course, was king. And Rickon...well, he’d marry too one day, and there’d be a place for him somewhere.

Sansa knew there’d always be a place for her at Winterfell if she asked, but she was getting that itch again to rule her own castle. She thought Gendry and Arya simply mad for not traveling south to take over Storm’s End. Then again, she knew the feeling of being homesick even when you were already home.

Sansa’s mother patted her hand again. “Of course not, my love.” And there was that sadness again in Catelyn’s eyes that came when she remembered too well everything they’d all gone through, and Sansa knew her mother might be happy too if she never did get married after all.

Still, Sansa thought, as she eyed her younger sister and her soon to be brother by law, if she could find a love like that, a husband who would abandon his claim to title and land, all for the love of a girl, a husband who would sacrifice all just to make her happy...Sansa thought she’d be more than willing to accept a marriage like that.

* * *

 Two moons later, Sansa was helping her sister back into her ivory wedding gown, which their mother had mended.

Arya was uncharacteristically quiet. And clammy.

“You’re not having second thoughts, are you, Arya?” Sansa asked her sister almost quietly.

Arya scoffed then, but didn’t smile when she said, “No, of course not.” She paused, but Sansa kept silent because she knew her sister was on the verge of disclosing what was wrong.

“You don’t think-...” Sansa couldn’t remember her little sister ever sounding so unsure of anything. It was lucky they were alone in Sansa’s chambers, or Sansa was sure Arya wouldn’t have said a thing. Sansa was almost surprised it was her that Arya chose to open up to. Although, as of late, ever since they’d been reunited, they’d grown much closer than before. A family tragedy will do that to you.

“You don’t think he’ll change his mind?” Arya blurted out suddenly.

Sansa almost dropped the silver jewels, early wedding gifts from the queen and king, she’d been putting onto her sister in surprise at the question. “No!” She exclaimed indecorously before she could stop herself.

“I mean…” Sansa took a deep breath as she placed the jewels onto Arya’s ears and around her neck. “Of course not,” Sansa let out the breath with the statement, as she rested her palm over the jewelry on her sister’s neck. “He loves you so, Arya.”

Arya seemed to breathe out a sigh of relief, then frowned again. “Yes, but…” She seemed unsure how to continue. “I mean...only…” Arya stomped a foot in frustration. “What if he’s only just realized he wants to marry a lady after all? Like you?”

“Me?” Sansa blinked in surprise, then laughed out loud, only to receive a glare from her sister for it. “Arya,” she nearly chided. “He knows you’re no lady. I’m sure that’s one of the reasons he loves you.”

Arya’s glare receded, but the furrow in her brow stayed behind. “Yes,” she repeated stubbornly. “But what if what he wants has changed?”

Sansa delicately arranged Arya’s gray and white family cloak over her sister’s shoulders then huffed. “What’s got this idea into your head?” Now Sansa was nearly frustrated. Here was the closest thing to a true knight, other than Barristan Selmy, they’d ever both encountered, and Arya was questioning his love and loyalty.

Arya looked only sad now, so Sansa softened. “It’s just-.” The words seemed to come in difficulty to Arya. “I’m not beautiful like you,” Arya blurted all of a sudden. “Why would he want me when he could have someone else, someone beautiful, as beautiful as you?”

Sansa blinked in surprise yet again, then felt terribly, terribly sorry at the memories that came rushing to her, of her or of her and her childhood friend Jeyne making fun of Arya and calling her names.

“Oh, Arya,” Sansa sighed. She took her sister by the shoulders and guided her to stand in front of the looking glass.

Instead of looking at her own reflection, Arya looked painfully at her sister through the mirror.

“You can’t be that dense, Arya,” Sansa muttered.

Arya glared again now, but Sansa jerked her chin toward the mirror.

“Look, Arya. You are beautiful.”

Arya was doubtful as she looked at her own reflection.

“Arya…” Sansa was the one struggling for words now. “I’m sorry...for everything. I know we’ve apologized to each before about it all but…” Sansa tried not to cry. She could be so emotional sometimes. “Jeyne and I only teased you because...well, we were jealous.”

It was Arya’s turn to blink in surprise. “Of me?”

Sansa smiled sadly now at the dubious reflection of her sister. She nodded. “Not exactly in the way you think.” She paused. “Well, it’s just...you were always father’s favorite, you know?”

And it was true. So true that even Arya didn’t try to deny it.

“Well, you were everyone’s favorite. And it was always you they were comparing to Aunt Lyanna. And father loved her so.”

That was true too. Only Ned ever called Arya as beautiful as their aunt. But everyone else was just as quick to compare Arya to the Stark woman who had ended a dragon reign of hundreds of years, if only by being so beautiful and fierce as to make the dragon prince fall in love with her. Arya sounded like her. Arya spoke like her. Arya’s temper was like hers. Arya rode as well as her. The comparisons were endless. And Sansa had half idolized her aunt, growing up, thinking stupidly how romantic it was that the beautiful Rhaegar had fallen for the lovely Lyanna like that. It had irked her to hear Arya compared to Lyanna when Sansa had always been taught she was the beautiful one, the true lady.

Of course, Sansa had grown up now. And though the truth was closer to what she’d believed as a child (the two truly had fallen in love with each other), it was more tragic still. And Sansa had suddenly understood why Arya was Ned’s favorite and why everything she did always frightened him so. Arya truly was like their aunt, and Ned had always been worried Arya’s story would end the same. Only it hadn’t. She’d chosen the Baratheon over the Targaryen. Because the match had been worthy. And Sansa had almost seen her father sigh in relief at the knowledge.

Sansa tried her best to explain all of this to Arya, whose face took turns looking surprised and grumpy and even a little pleased.

Arya looked at her reflection again, then back to her sister with questioning eyes. “You really think I’m pretty?” Her voice small.

Sansa smiled her brightest, truest smile then. “No, Arya.” She shook her head. “You’re beautiful. Believe me.” And she took her sister’s chin so she was once again facing her own reflection.

Arya smiled brightly then too, and she was back to her old self, rolling her eyes. “Not that it matters. He’s going to marry me whether he wants to or not.”

Sansa couldn’t help the smile that came to her face as she joined Arya in rolling her eyes. Suddenly Arya turned swiftly and threw her arms around Sansa who was so surprised it took her another moment before she returned the embrace.

“Thank you, Sansa,” and Arya’s words were heartfelt.

Sansa squeezed Arya back and felt at peace finally with their childhood fights, most especially with the way Sansa had treated Arya.

* * *

 

Sansa led her sister towards the godswood where everyone waited to see the wolf marry her bull. Sansa was not surprised to see their father waiting at the entrance of the godswood. He would be walking Arya to Gendry and handing her hand to his. Sansa was, however, surprised to see Lord Tyrion Lannister of Casterly Rock, her former, or was it current, husband. Sansa was also surprised that the sight of him brought her pleasure instead of hate or disgust, as she might have expected. He really had been, after everything, the only one who’d been kind to her in King’s Landing.

“My, you make an absolutely exquisite bride, Lady Arya,” Tyrion bowed deeply towards them. “And my Lady Sansa. As breathtaking as ever.”

Sansa found herself slightly breathless. The little lord, himself, never looked handsome, but Sansa found she liked his smile, scar and all, and the bright way his eyes rested on her form. He really might have been one of the only good men she’d known in King’s Landing.

“You’re looking well, my lord.” Sansa responded demurely, curtsying slightly, her head bowed.

Sansa looked to Arya to make sure she returned the courtesy but forgot pleasantries when she saw her sister had tears in her eyes. Arya was looking at their father who also had tears in his eyes as he gazed on his youngest daughter in her wedding gown.

“My love,” he said in a hoarse voice and held his arms out.

Arya released Sansa’s hand and rushed into their father’s arms, crumpling, to Sansa’s distress, Arya’s gown. But Arya paid no heed to the creases being made in her gown or the way some of her hair fell from the updo Sansa had put it in. Arya held onto her father tightly, and Sansa felt that twinge again as she saw her father’s form shaking slightly. She had never seen her father this emotional before, certainly not when her marriage to Joffrey had been announced.

A soft touch at Sansa’s elbow. She looked at Tyrion who stood at her side.

“Shall we join the others?” He asked in a soft tone so as to avoid interrupting the father-daughter moment.

Sansa smiled shyly down at him and took his offered arm as best she could. “Yes, my lord.” She whispered as well and let him lead her.

Sansa and Tyrion joined the queen and Sansa’s lady mother near the front of the crowd gathered near the weirwood tree. Robb was there too, along with the rest of their brothers. Sansa noted the absence of Prince Aegon and remembered hearing Jon tell Gendry, in almost a pleased tone, that Aegon had insisted on remaining behind in King’s Landing to help the Hand, Davos Seaworth, manage the realm’s affairs.

The godswood itself was breathtaking. A light layer of frost covered the trees and ground from the earlier fall of snow. Spring was struggling to arrive. The pond near them was frozen over in shiny grays and whites and silvers. Sansa felt like they were living in a portrait; she’d never seen a setting more romantic for a wedding.

The groom was standing near the weirwood tree beside his friend and king, looking uncertain, but his eyes were searching behind the crowd for Arya, Sansa knew. Sansa noted that his nose, if the slightest bit red, was no longer crooked at all; Maester Luwin had fixed him up nicely.

Soon they approached, father and daughter, on the path between the lanterns that lit their way to the tree. Both Arya’s and Ned’s eyes were red-rimmed from their tears, though that didn’t diminish Arya’s beauty whatsoever. If anything, the tears made her gray eyes sparkle the more.

Sansa watched Gendry now who looked like he’d just taken a strong blow to the chest. He had sucked in a long breath as he watched Sansa’s sister approaching him. A lone tear found its way down his cheek. It was as if he had forgotten the rest of them existed.

Arya too, her arm wrapped around her father’s, only had eyes for her very soon husband to be. He looked dashing after all. Sansa had always thought the smith handsome, but in the colors of his father’s house, the black and gold doublet and cape, with his jet black hair and ocean blue eyes, combined with the look on his face he reserved only for Arya, he looked, at that moment, almost more a king than Jon beside him.

Soon enough, the two were joined again.

“Who comes before the gods?” Jon asked somberly.

It was Arya who spoke, though traditionally the father was supposed to say the words. “Arya of House Stark, grown and war-tried, a wolf and a warg.”

Sansa almost gasped at Arya’s butchery of the traditional words. But it should have been expected. Small smiles played on the lips of Arya, Gendry and Jon.

“Who comes to claim her?” Jon asked next, his hands folded in front of him seriously.

“Gendry,” the smith spoke. “Of…” Here, he paused, unused to the title they’d insisted he use during the tradition. “Of House Baratheon. Lord of Storm’s End.” He seemed to have difficulty speaking the words.

“Who gives her?” Jon asked lastly.

Sansa smiled softly, remembering her father’s joke the night before at the idea of anyone giving Arya. She’d never had consented to being a gift, but it was no matter today as she gave herself willingly, and took the smith equally. Still, the words were tradition.

“I do.” Ned whispered, so Sansa barely heard him, and she noticed the way his arm tightened over Arya’s instead of letting go.

Before placing his youngest daughter’s hand in the smith’s, Ned used one arm to give Gendry a gruff hug and kissed his forehead. Then it was just Arya and Gendry in front of the weirwood tree and the king.

Ned joined Sansa and Catelyn in the crowd. For a brief moment, Ned cupped Sansa’s face with his hand and looked at her lovingly and sadly. Then he was enveloping Cat in a hug as they watched Arya and Gendry marry.

“Arya,” Jon smiled lovingly down at their little sister, and Sansa pictured him ruffling her hair like he used to when they were younger. “Do you take this man?”

Arya tilted her head at Gendry teasingly, as if debating whether or not to say yes. The smith smiled sheepishly, and Sansa could imagine the insults and japes they were holding back trading with each other.

“I take this man,” Arya said finally, in that lilting and teasing voice she saved just for her smith.

In front of the weirwood tree, Jon had stepped aside, so Arya and Gendry were facing the tree directly. Hand-in-hand, the two kneeled and both bowed their heads. They were given a few silent moments to pray if they wished or reflect on their choice of spouse.

“Rise.” Jon said finally. This part of the tradition was new, Sansa knew. Jon had suggested that the two speak vows of their own.

Gendry and Arya faced each other, smiling almost timidly at each other, Sansa noticed.

“What promise do you make each other in the sight of the gods?” Jon asked now.

Gendry spoke first, but released one of his hands from Arya’s to caress her face as he spoke.

“I promise to always keep you safe and warm,” he said, his voice low and husky, and Sansa knew he only meant for Arya to hear the words. “And guard you with my sword.”

Sansa watched as her baby sister cradled the smith’s hand over her face with her own hand. She looked intently at him, more intently than Sansa could ever remember her looking at anything.

“I promise to always keep you safe and warm,” Arya whispered back, in a voice so unlike her usual brash, commanding one. “And guard you with my sword.”

Then it was time for the changing of the bride’s cloak. Arya turned obediently to let Gendry unclasp her cloak from around her shoulders. He draped the gray and white cloak over one arm and swept the black and gold one from around his own shoulders and over his bride’s, the golden stag gleaming brightly in the growing dusk.

What he did next surprised everyone present, including Arya. As she turned to face him once again, he swept around and fell to one knee and held the gray and white cloak out behind him as an offering to Arya. Only a beat passed before the girl realized what her new husband wanted her to do. A wolfish grin overtook her features as she grabbed the cloak almost excitedly from him and clasped it onto his shoulders. Behind her family, Sansa could hear the scandalized murmurs and whispers. But the queen hid a small smile, and the king smiled widely at the smith, as if all his hopes about who the man truly was had been realized. Ned chuckled, and Catelyn pursed her lips, though her eyes were smiling.

Gendry rose and turned once more to his wife who leapt into his arms and kissed him full on the mouth. Sansa chuckled along with the rest of those present. That was it. They were husband and wife. Now for the feast.

Sansa started in surprise when she realized she was still holding Lord Tyrion’s arm. She’d been so engrossed she hadn’t realized. Not only that but as the ceremony had gone on, she’d clutched him tighter with emotion. Sansa was also surprised to realize how comforted she felt by the gesture. When she looked down, Lord Tyrion was holding his handkerchief out to her and only then did she realize that she had tears streaming down her face.

“My lady,” Tyrion was saying as she took the cloth from him. He sounded breathless. “Even weeping, you are a sight to behold. I am honored to have once called you my wife.”

Sansa smiled demurely once more, though the smile was a true one. “Thank you, my lord. Shall we follow to the feast?” She gave the gentlest tug to his arm so as to lead them behind the procession toward the great hall where Arya and Gendry’s marriage would be celebrated.

“Strange,” Lord Tyrion murmured as they watched the retreating backs of the bride and groom. “That a Baratheon should finally marry a Stark.”

“You think it a strange pairing, my Lord?” Sansa breathed.

Tyrion glanced curiously up at her. “On the contrary, dear Sansa, they make the perfect pairing. This time. That’s what’s so strange, I suppose.”

Sansa mulled it over as they crossed the courtyard. She supposed it was strange that Arya, who looked and acted so like their aunt, should end up marrying King Robert’s son, a boy who looked exactly like his father but acted nothing like him, when Lyanna and Robert’s own betrothal had always been so doomed to fail.

“Sansa!” She heard her sister shout as her and the little lord of Lannister entered the hall. Arya was waving her arms wildly and indicating towards the seat beside hers. And Sansa realized that the seat to Arya’s left, usually reserved for Jon, had been saved for Sansa instead. Jon and Daenerys sat on Gendry’s right, and the rest of the Stark clan and other honored guests at both tables to the direct left and right of the high table. Sansa couldn’t help the pleased smile that came to her lips.

Tyrion started to unravel his arm from hers so as to let her join her family, but she tightened her arm around his instead. “Join us, my Lord.” She spoke. “There’s room enough for you as well.”

Tyrion looked surprised but pleased and followed her up to the high table. Sansa sat daintily next to her sister who was laughing and making her new husband drink deeply from a mug of mead. Sansa let Lord Tyrion push her chair in for her before he took the seat next to hers.

“If you don’t finish the whole mug, our marriage is annulled,” Arya exclaimed from where she stood over her poor husband, holding the mug up to his mouth.

Gendry, grinning madly from ear to ear, was gulping the mead as fast as he could without spilling, though some splashed onto his previously clean tunic, and Sansa cringed when some almost got on Arya’s dress, which was still clean and not torn but for the very bottom where Arya had not taken enough care while walking.

Both husband and wife shouted and pounded their fists on the table when Gendry had drained the cup. Sansa rolled her eyes but smiled anyway. Gendry had stood and gathered Arya in his arms in a celebratory hug. Sansa nearly choked on her wine when Arya kissed her new husband embarrassingly full on the mouth, her hands roaming his torso inappropriately. Tyrion was chuckling at Sansa’s left.

“They’re their parents’ children alright.” Tyrion told Sansa politely.

“Did you know my lady aunt?” Sansa asked her, well, husband, in surprise.

Tyrion took a long swig of wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before answering. “I didn’t, really.” But he had seen Sansa’s expectant gaze and the way her shoulders had drooped at his answer. “Well, I mean to say, I met her only the once and so short was the encounter, but I also had the opportunity to observe her from afar on more than one occasion, though I was then quite young.”

Excitement rose in Sansa at his words; even today, still, she loved to hear tales about her now long dead aunt. “Can you tell me about these encounters?” She asked breathlessly, raising her glass to her lips for another sip of the sweet wine.

At her side, Arya and Gendry were being rowdy still. This time, much to Catelyn’s disapproval from the side table, Gendry was holding the same mug to Arya’s lips and goading her to finish it in less time than he’d finished his cup. Sansa was genuinely not surprised when her sister did so before letting out a belch that made Sansa elbow Arya gently.

Meanwhile, Tyrion was telling Sansa tales about her aunt. “I remember that she seemed quiet and reserved when surrounded by others of court,” he told her gently, offering her a platter of sweet figs and goat cheese on toasted slices of bread before taking one for himself. “But when alone with her brothers, she was loud and brash, wild you could say.” He eyed Arya, who was perched on Gendry’s lap, her chair next to Sansa abandoned, tossing food towards Gendry’s face; the latter tried to catch the food, but Arya was intentionally throwing it so as to miss his open mouth and get him in the face. “Much like your beloved sister.”

“What else?” Sansa had forgotten her manners, asking the question with a chew of bread still in her mouth. Remembering herself, she apologized hastily and swallowed wine to clear her mouth and palate.

Tyrion was chewing thoughtfully on a bite of boar seared in peach juice and eastern spices. “I remember she was challenging...it was your father, I think, to a duel, in the courtyard. Jokingly, of course, but when she took your Uncle Benjen’s wooden sword from him, it was clear she was a match for them both, though your father was older, of course.”

Sansa smiled joyfully. “She really was like Arya after all.” The thought made her think back on all the times her father had said so, Arya’s grimy defiant face staring up at him in confusion.

“She was,” Tyrion took another small sip of wine to wash down a bite of food. “But,” he paused here. “She was also very much like you, my Lady. If you’ll permit me to say.”

Sansa blinked sideways in surprise at Tyrion. “Like me?” No one had ever said that before, not even father. “How do you mean?” He was only trying to be kind, she thought. He must know she’d idealized her aunt, so must know the comparison might please her.

“Well,” he took a small nibble out of a piece of stewed fish wrapped in bacon. “She was also very good at being a lady, when need be. She could be polite and demure and pleasant and could always say the right thing at the right time. She knew when to be herself and when to put on her mask.” He looked sideways at her with the slightest smile. “That guile does remind me of someone I know.”

Sansa thought on this for a moment, her gaze resting on her wine glass. At her side, Arya and Gendry were finally getting more food into their mouths than into their hair, though Arya threw the occasional bite at Gendry still. Nearby Catelyn seemed to have given up on trying to get Sansa’s attention so as to indicate with her eyes that Sansa should calm her down. What was the point of trying? Arya wouldn’t listen and, besides, it was Arya’s wedding day. She should be free to celebrate as she pleased, even if it was humiliating.

Finally, Sansa turned back towards Tyrion whose gaze was quizzical. “I hope I did not say the wrong thing, my Lady.”

Sansa swallowed with difficulty and shook her head. “Not at all, my Lord.” She paused. “I never knew. I mean- that’s not a side my father talks of often...that is to say, even still, he hardly speaks of Aunt Lyanna at all.”

Tyrion gazed knowingly at Ned Stark then took another sip of wine. “No, he wouldn’t have. He loved her fiercely.” Tyrion’s gaze found Jon now, who was laughing riotously at Arya’s gimmicks, which included taking ice chips, meant for the wine, from the frozen platter before them and shoving them down Gendry’s tunic. The latter was taking the ice away from his skin and returning the favor. “He loved her more than his honor. Who could have known?”

Tyrion looked back to Sansa. “She loved her family fiercely as well.” His gaze bore into hers, and Sansa felt tears prickle her eyes. She tried hard to swallow but could not without another few swallows of wine. He meant that as a comparison as well. Sansa looked around, a teary smile taking over her features, as she watched her family and gulped down the sounds of their joy and laughter.

Little Rickon flicking food across the tables toward the bride and groom, just like Arya used to, managing to get a large bite of potatoes into Arya’s lap. The latter only scooped the potato up and made her husband eat them. Quiet Bran speaking passionately with Meera and Jojen about some grave matter or other; despite his legs, he looked as happy as any time before Winter. Noble Robb, cradling his first child in his lap, and gazing lovingly at Jeyne, the Westerling girl he’d taken as a wife. Her lord father and lady mother, the first watching the newly married pair lovingly, the second disapprovingly. And then there was Arya, shouting about some lie Gendry was supposedly telling about their time in Braavos. He was remembering it wrong, she insisted. When he wouldn’t give in and Arya realized he’d only been mocking her severity about the matter, Arya smacked him but he caught her up in his arms and flooded her with kisses.

Sansa loved them all so fiercely too, even the new additions.

Sansa’s face was equal parts happy and sad. There had been a time when she’d never thought they’d all be back together like this, sure Joffrey was going to murder her before she ever got to hug a one of them again. Despite her and Arya’s constant bickering throughout childhood, Sansa would have killed back then even just to see her wild, bratty little sister or her sullen, distant half-brother Jon.

Tyrion was looking at her curiously. “Are you well, my lady?” He asked, genuine concern evident in his tone.

Sansa nodded, wiping her eyes with Lord Tyrion’s handkerchief, the one he’d given her earlier in the godswood. “I’m very happy.”

“Yes.” He said softly. “I can see, and I’m very glad that’s so.”

She smiled waterily at him. “Thank you being so kind, Lord Tyrion. Now and…” She paused. “Then.” Referring to King’s Landing.

Tyrion looked grave. He shook his head now. “No, my lady. Do not thank me.” He took a larger gulp of wine than even before. “I should have, could have, done so much more. And I did not.”

He put his cup down heavily. “Your aunt...was a kind soul, as well, not at all unlike yourself. That day,” He paused. “That same day...I couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years...and a group of older boys, maybe eleven or twelve, decided it was a good time to bully the dwarf child, the freak. She caught them across their backsides with her stick several times, though she was smaller than the biggest of them, and they scrambled away crying. For a long time, that was the only kindness anyone had shown me. ‘As long as you remain good and true,’ she told me, ‘you will always be a bigger man than any one of them.’”

Sansa had never before heard this story, wasn’t sure it was even one her father knew. She’d never have guessed. “She was brave.” Sansa’s voice shook.

Tyrion nodded gravely. “It runs in your family, I dare say.”

Sansa smiled and nodded gratefully but said, “Arya’s the brave one.”

Tyrion smiled grimly. “Very brave, but there are many different types of bravery, my Lady. There’s the kind that makes you defy kings by picking their cups up for lesser men.” He referred to the time at Joffrey’s wedding when, knowing it might anger Joffrey, Sansa had done Tyrion a kindness by picking Joffrey’s wine glass up from beneath the table and handing it to Tyrion.

It was Sansa’s turn to feel sorry. “He was the lesser man. I should have been kinder.” She apologized.

Tyrion shook his head. “No, you should not have been kind at all. My family hurt yours, and badly. We had no right to your kindness and yet you gave it anyway. You may not look like your aunt, though you’re just as beautiful, in the Tully way, but you possess her kindness and her bravery, I promise you.”

Sansa did something very Arya-like then and leaned over to kiss Lord Tyrion chastely on the cheek. “Thank you, my Lord.”

By this time, Arya and Gendry were, if not drunk, very close to it, and both hooted her way upon sighting the kiss. Having taken notice of her sister, Arya became relentless in tossing food her way, aiming specifically to get it down her dress.

Sansa, herself, was also almost drunk, both on the wine and her lord husband’s words, and didn’t mind. It pleased her actually that Arya’s attention could shift so easily from the smith to her sister.

Later, the dancing begun, and while Sansa was asked to dance by many of the men of her father’s court, it was Tyrion Lannister she danced with most. They were both drunk enough and happy enough that the height difference was more of a small nuisance than an obstruction.

Arya danced only with Gendry. Until he accidentally stepped on her toe. Then, in a slight drunken fit, she demanded that Sansa trade her much more graceful partner, Tyrion, for the ‘stupid, heavy footed bull.’ Sansa obliged with a smile. Tyrion was much more hesitant and looked almost frightened of Arya, whose mood could grow rabid, though she was only mainly joking now.

Gendry was gentle as he put one hand high on Sansa’s waist, taking her hand in his. They circled the dance floor smoothly, but Sansa was surprised to find that she missed dancing with Tyrion. Back when she was a girl, she would have given anything to be swept away by a handsome, strong, young lord like Gendry. She knew so much better about the world now, and while Gendry was gallant and kind, he was not Tyrion Lannister, who was cleverer than any other man she knew.

“You make my sister so incredibly happy, Lord Gendry.” Sansa told him genuinely.

He looked surprised. “Call me Gendry, my Lady.” He insisted.

She laughed. She really had drunk an awful lot of wine. “Only if you call me Sansa.” Then she smiled kindly. “Or sister.”

He inclined his head gratefully and smiled back, still shy, she could tell, with everyone but Arya, Jon and Ned. “You honor me, sister.”

And the title pleased Sansa. For Gendry was, and truly had been for almost two years now, her family.

“And no more happy than she makes me.” Gendry addressed her earlier point. “I don’t know what my life would have been without Arry.” He always used his pet name for her, borne, she knew, out of their journey from King’s Landing.

“Yes,” she agreed, feeling cheeky, “you’re a very lucky man. My sister is one of a kind, you know.”

He agreed fervently.

They swept past Robb and Jeyne. “I hope you’re not tormenting the poor boy,” Robb exclaimed over his shoulder to his sister before disappearing across the floor and behind another couple.

Gendry and Sansa only laughed at that. Suddenly, Arya was sweeping between them out of nowhere, glowering at Gendry.

“I was calling your name.” She growled, punching him, albeit softly, in the gut.

Then Gendry was sweeping his wife up into his arms and apologizing, Sansa forgotten in front of them. But not for long. Looking amused, Tyrion had trailed behind Arya across the hall.

Without needing to say a word, Sansa and Tyrion joined arms and walked back to the high table. From there, they watched as Arya chased Gendry across the hall while holding her shoe for tickling her yet again. Then as Gendry intentionally got berry from the wedding pie all across Arya’s face and, to both Sansa’s and Catelyn’s horror, on Arya’s gown. Later, Arya unsheathed a sword when someone suggested a bedding. With Arya’s sword at his throat and Gendry’s fierce glare on him, the man quickly shut up.

Later that night, the feast over, Tyrion escorted Sansa over to the tower that would lead her up to her family’s chambers. Arya and Gendry had disappeared there hours ago, and Sansa didn’t want to know what they were up to, though it being their wedding night (and what with the raunchy jokes told ‘round that hall that garnered glares from Ned, Robb and Jon), Sansa could guess.

“Good night, my lady.” Tyrion turned to stalk off towards the guests’ quarters when Sansa called out his name.

She was unsure of what she even wanted to say, knew only that matters between her and the little lord had changed that night. He turned curiously.

“Will you break fast with me tomorrow?” She settled on, politely.

Tyrion beamed. “I would be delighted to, my Lady.” And he approached her again, took her hand in his, and kissed it, before walking off once more.

Sansa felt strangely giddy as she ascended the stairs to her bed chambers and knew the feeling had little to do with the wine.

“There you are!” Sansa’s sister exclaimed suddenly from down the corridor.

Arya was rushing toward Sansa and Sansa’s bed chamber in naught but her dressing gown.

“Arya,” Sansa said in surprise. “You’re still awake?”

“Yes,” Arya growled, pushing Sansa into her bed chamber. “The stupid bull is asleep, and I’m bored. I need to talk to you.”

Arya joined Sansa in her large four poster bed, and they snuggled together the way they had long, long ago when they were but tiny children.

Sansa was shy to ask but got it over with. “How was it?’

Arya frowned, but wiggled her eyebrows playfully anyway at her sister until her sister got the hint.

“Oh.” Sansa looked scandalized at the idea that the two had coupled long before the wedding. “Father would kill him if he knew.”

“No, he wouldn’t.” Arya flipped onto her back, looking dreamily up at the ceiling.

Sansa bit back a smile, rolling her eyes at what she knew to be the truth. “No,” she agreed, “he really wouldn’t.”

She knew now that Gendry was the man Ned Stark wished his best friend, Robert, had been. He looked upon him fondly, truly as a son. And, now, as the husband of his favorite child (a husband who loved that child more than life itself), Sansa was sure there was little Gendry could do to garner Ned’s disapproval.

“It was still good.” Arya said argumentatively with a crooked smile.

Sansa couldn’t help but giggle.

Arya glanced sideways at her sister. “You’ve never…” Arya raised her eyebrows curiously.

Sansa looked scandalized again. “No!” She breathed.

Arya rolled her eyes. “You don’t need to be married to.”

Sansa scoffed. “You would say that. And what would you have done if you’d come with child?”

Sansa couldn’t picture Arya as a mother. Not yet anyway. Though she supposed that was a likelihood now. It’d be nice, she supposed, to have a little wildling child, half-Arya, half-Gendry, running around Winterfell, causing all sorts of havoc. Maybe ‘nightmare’ was the word she was looking for, she thought, instead of ‘nice.’

Arya’s turn to scoff and grin wickedly. “Have you never heard of moon’s tea?”

Sansa couldn’t help but redden. She was no good at these sorts of things. Leave it to Arya to be so crass about it all.

“Anyway,” Arya continued sleepily, yawning. “I expect it won’t be much longer for you.”

Sansa rubbed her eyes, fighting sleep as well. “What do you mean?”

Arya grinned crookedly again. “Well, you’re already married, aren’t you? And quite taken with your husband too. If not as taken as he is with you.”

Sansa turned red again, but her smile was pleased. She slapped Arya’s hand. “Shut it.”

Arya blinked in surprise. It wasn’t like Sansa to say something like that, even to Arya. Then they were both laughing hysterically.

This is nice, Sansa thought then, as they quieted down and murmured some more about their husbands, respectively estranged and new. This is very nice.

And she thought she’d been crazy for ever wanting someone as a sister who wasn’t Arya.

“I’m sorry.” Sansa said suddenly.

Arya blinked in surprise then. “For what?”

Sansa felt true remorse then. “For not seeing what the rest of you saw, that Joff was a monster. For choosing him.”

Arya’s mouth formed an ‘o’ of surprise. “You couldn’t have known, Sansa. Not really.” She shook her head adamantly. Thankfully, all the animosity they might have borne to each other all those years ago, for so many things, little and small, they’d managed to let go of.

“And I’m sorry.” Arya blurted.

Sansa’s turn to be surprised.

“For leaving you behind in King’s Landing. I should have tried harder to rescue you.”

Sansa pulled her sister into a tight hug. “Oh, Arya. You couldn’t have.” Sansa was glad to see that there was nothing awkward about the hug.

Things were finally as they should be.

“So when do you think you and Tyrion are going to…” Arya was waggling her eyebrows suggestively once more at her sister.

Sansa reddened again and buried her face in her pillow. “Well, we are still married, so…” Sansa said in a voice, muffled by the pillow, implying she could lay with her husband at any time.

Arya gave a shocked gasp that sounded forced and comical.

Suddenly, from the hallway, came the voice of the smith, in a shout. “Arya.” He sounded grumpy and groggy.

Arya stifled her giggle with one of Sansa’s cushions, then hopped out of the featherbed and tiptoed toward the chamber door, one finger to her lips indicating Sansa shouldn’t give her away.

But Sansa was feeling mischievous, and as Arya inched the door open quietly, Sansa shouted next. “She’s in here, Gendry!”

Arya only had time to turn and glare before there was a flurry of commotion and giggles from the door where Gendry was tackling Arya in a hug, while simultaneously tickling her.

Arya swore loudly and cursed Sansa for tattling, promising to get her back.

As the commotion made its way up the hallway, back toward Arya and Gendry’s chambers, Sansa clutched her belly, which hurt from laughing so hard at the bemused look of shock and betrayal on Arya’s face just then.

Sansa settled down finally, staring up at the intricate designs of wolves in the wood of her four poster bed. She was home. And she was happy. She could ask for little more from life. Except perhaps for a loving husband. Sansa fell asleep with a smile on her delicate lips.


End file.
